Hope Triumphant I: Healer
by Parda
Summary: Cassandra and Methos have a beer; then Duncan faces Ahriman, and Methos goes a-wandering while Cassandra sees a therapist. Set in 1997-2006
1. Through a Glass Darkly

_"Hope Triumphant I: Healer " Highlander Fanfiction (May 2000) by Parda _  
><em>Not my universe, not my characters. Rated "Tee<em>n"<em> for occasional profanity and reference to rape and violence._

* * *

><p><strong><em>Cassandra and the Sisterhood<br>_**

**Hope Triumpha**n**t  
><strong>

by Parda

* * *

><p>Cassandra waited through the cold and the dark of winter, but when the thrushes began building their nest in the rowan tree outside her bedroom window, and the delicate white blossoms of the crocus pushed up from the thawing mud, she started hunting.<p>

Methos owed her.

* * *

><p><strong>Hope Triumph<strong>a<strong>n<strong>t I - Healer  
><strong>**

**THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Thursday, 3 April 1997<strong>_  
><em><strong>Paris, France<strong>__  
><em>

* * *

><p>"Adam Pierson," Methos said into the telephone, leaning back in his squeaky wooden chair and placing his feet on top of his cluttered desk.<p>

The speaker knew better. "Methos."

"Cassandra," Methos said slowly, taking his feet down, trying to divine her mood from that one word, trying to divine his own. Relief? Dread? Both? A woman going into labor probably felt much the same; the inevitable moment was at hand, and he didn't want to go through with it. He didn't have a choice. "This is a surprise."

"Not as much as the last few times we've met, I suspect," she said, short, sharp, and to the point—rather like a Roman sword.

"No," he agreed. Each time he'd seen her in November had been a surprise: at MacLeod's dojo when she had tried to kill him, at the power plant when she had tried to kill Kronos, and in the cage in Bordeaux when Kronos had been planning to kill her. Unpleasant surprises all. Methos sighed silently as he stood to look out the grimy window at the narrow Parisian street below. Might as well get this over with. "What do you want?"

"You and I have unfinished business," Cassandra said calmly.

"Yeah," he muttered. Like her standing over him with an axe in her hand, about to take his head. Like blood debts. Like preparing to fight, possibly to die. "Look, Cassandra—"

"We need to talk," she interrupted.

"Talk?" he repeated. That was a surprise.

"Talk."

Methos nodded and sat back down as the relief outpaced the dread. Talk sounded good—but then again, Cassandra had been neither friendly nor rational the last time he'd spoken to her. Quite possibly, she was setting him up. "Holy Ground, then."

"Do we need that?" she asked, sharp and pointed again, surprising him again. "You can resist the Voice," she went on, "and we both know I can't defeat you in a sword fight, so I won't have a chance of taking your head."

She could, Methos knew, shoot him from a distance and take his head. Of course, if they were on Holy Ground, she could still shoot him from a distance, drag him off Holy Ground, and _then_ take his head.

"Besides," Cassandra said, "I don't want your head."

Uh-huh.

"And you don't want mine," she continued serenely.

"Sure of that?" he challenged.

Her serenity became satisfaction, touched with amusement. "Kronos was."

She had him there. Methos really felt like saying, "I've changed," but he controlled himself and said only, "Fine. Where?"

"Brighton Beach, England. This weekend."

"It's only April, Cassandra." Methos propped his feet up on his desk again. "Can't you pick some place warmer, like the Riviera or a Greek island or something?"

"I don't have time to travel that far," came the brisk reply.

"You're immortal," Methos said in exasperation.

"I also have to go to work on Monday morning."

And, in fact, so did he. He had an appointment with his thesis advisor. "Adam Pierson" had spent five years transcribing and correlating different dialects of Sumerian, and Methos knew a lot of other scholars would benefit from the work. He had come back to Paris to finish it and then publish Adam Pierson's final accomplishment. Then Pierson would disappear and Methos would find a new name and a new life. But first, he needed to deal with Cassandra.

"All right," Methos told her. "Saturday morning?"

"There's a carousel near the Marine Palace," Cassandra said. "Six o'clock."

Methos groaned. "Ten."

"Seven."

"Nine," he countered.

"Seven fifteen," she suggested.

"Eight forty-five." If she kept arguing with him, he might just agree to meet with her at seven thirty, and then show up when he bloody well felt like it.

Cassandra stopped arguing. "You know where this is going, don't you?" she asked.

Of course he did—at least in the matter of time. "We seem to be oscillating toward a limit value of eight," he answered.

"Taking a math class at that college?"

"No, that was my last degree. This time I'm studying Sumerian cuneiforms. I was writing the bibliography for my thesis when you called."

"Then I shouldn't take up anymore of your valuable time, since you're dealing with such an urgent topic," she said gravely. "Eight o'clock, the carousel at Brighton Beach, agreed?"

"Agreed," Methos said.

"We need to go beyond the night, Methos," Cassandra said softly, and then she hung up.

Methos set his telephone down, then laced his fingers together behind his head and leaned back in his chair as he murmured, "Beyond the night." In that cage in Bordeaux five months ago, Cassandra had named herself a Daughter of Night, a Fury, a child born from the blood of the castrated god Uranus. Then she had told him the Furies would pursue him into madness, unto death, and beyond.

Methos had passed through madness into death, and he'd been enduring Beyond ever since. He wondered what Cassandra had been enduring. Dreams? Nightmares? Voices that jabbered in her mind and drove her mad? For the last five months, or for the last three thousand years? He'd hurt and killed so many, and there was absolutely nothing he could change, nothing he could do. Except, maybe ...

Methos owed her, and she was right. They did have unfinished business.

But so did he. Methos sat up and reached for the list of sources to include in his bibliography. He'd been away from this for nearly a year, and knew he couldn't get another extension if he missed the deadline yet again. And Adam Pierson was going to publish before he perished—Methos was determined on that.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Friday Morning, 4 April 1997<strong>_  
><em><strong>Fort William, Scotland <strong>__  
><em>

* * *

><p>Jennifer Corans saw her husband Tom off to work and her two teen-aged daughters off to school, and then she walked into the center of town to her office, the front room of a Victorian row-house turned into professional spaces. She waved to the lawyer who was on his way upstairs and then unlocked the door to her office. Tea, of course, first thing every morning, with the water boiled on the electric burner in the corner. She hated microwaved tea.<p>

Jennifer settled back in her desk chair and sipped as she looked over her schedule for the day. Two clients were coming for their regular therapy sessions this afternoon, and Sandra Grant had called yesterday and asked for a special appointment this morning. Jennifer put on her new bifocals and took out the file on her latest client, then she squinted, blinked, and squinted again. She gave up and took off her glasses, holding the paper at arm's length to read the biographical information on the first page.

* * *

><p><em>Client's Name: Catherine Sandra Grant<em>  
><em>Date of Birth: 3 September 1962 (adopted)<em>  
><em>Age: 34<em>  
><em>Birthplace: India<em>  
><em>Father: John William Grant—Methodist missionary (deceased)<em>  
><em>Mother: Cecilia Louise (Ayerton) Grant—Nurse (deceased)<em>  
><em>Education: home-schooled<em>

* * *

><p>All neatly typed and straightforward. All outright lies. Of course, Jennifer had typed this before she had learned the truth.<p>

_Name: Cassandra_  
><em>Date of Birth: unknown, c. 1400 BCE<em>  
><em>Age: about 34 centuries<em>  
><em>Birthplace: somewhere in a desert (Arabia?)<em>  
><em>Father: unknown. Adoptive father: Hijad, mystical healer<em>  
><em>Mother: unknown<em>  
><em>Education: High Priestess of the Temple of Artemis, Inner Circle Initiate of the sexual ecstasy cult of Aphrodite, studied with Hypatia of Alexandria and St. Brigid of Ireland.<em>

No one would believe the truth. Jennifer certainly hadn't, not at first. During their third session, back in February, Cassandra had casually announced, "I think you should know that I'm immortal."

Jennifer had nodded slowly and leaned forward with an encouraging smile, wondering how this delusion connected to the relatively standard psychological profile of a rape victim and battered woman. Then Cassandra had cut her finger with a pocketknife, and Jennifer had watched the wound heal with little blue flickers of flame. Cassandra had explained it, calmly and rationally, and Jennifer had found herself nodding again and believing every word. Cassandra had suggested they keep the immortality a secret, and Jennifer had agreed immediately. She always kept clients' information confidential.

Jennifer turned to the second page in the report, the client history and initial diagnosis. That was still true, though she'd had to add to it considerably to make it complete. She'd even put names in it, since no one else would ever be allowed to see the report.

_DESCRIPTION OF CLIENT: Caucasian female, appears to be between 30-35 years in age. She is verbal, articulate, about 175 centimeters and 60 kilos, and appropriately dressed for the interview. She lives alone and is employed as a music teacher at a girls' boarding school._

___  
><em>MEDICAL &amp; HEALTH HISTORY<em>

_Illnesses: none_  
><em>Accidents, Injuries: many and various, but none physically apparent at interview<em>  
><em>Family Health History: unknown<em>  
><em>PhysicianDate of Last Visit: none. Unnecessary. Perfect health._  
><em>Physical cause for mental problems: none.<em>

_FAMILY, RELATIONSHIP HISTORY & SOCIAL SUPPORT_

_FAMILY: Adopted. Childhood had positive experiences, supportive and loving family and social group. Good male and female role models. No incest._

_RELATIONSHIPS: First relationship with a man [Methos] was initially abusive, duration ~1 year. Long-term relationship with another man [Roland] was severely dysfunctional (battering, verbal and psychological abuse). These have affected all her other relationships, though client does report supportive partners (Four husbands, all deceased. Many lovers—some female.)_

_SOCIAL SUPPORT (availability, use): Client reports two close friends [a married couple, Alexandra (Alex) and Connor]. (Connor is also former lover, c. 400 years ago.) Client receives significant support from these friends. They encouraged her to seek counseling._

___  
><em>LIFE FACTORS<em>

_DAILY LIFE: Long history of sleep problems is reported. Nightmares and intrusive flashbacks have decreased in frequency over the last three months. Has had difficulties sleeping for more than 4 hours at a time. Previously poor appetite, no problems at this time. Daily exercise: running, yoga, fencing. Client lives alone and is able to create routines and order for herself. No pets._

_MOOD/EMOTION: Anxiety and Depressed mood are reported, paranoia. Client displayed hyper-vigilance during the interview. Client reports feeling either hyper or numb when under stress. Distrust and fear of all men. Lies frequently to conceal past, doesn't like being in groups. Avoids all emotional involvement._

_SEXUAL: History of both masochistic sexual impulses and of enjoying sadistic dominator role, promiscuity (due to low self-esteem and/or immediate compliance with men's demands), prostitution (enforced and voluntary). Has had satisfying sexual relationships. Currently sexually frigid (no masturbation), avoids physical contact of any kind._

_ANGER, AGGRESSION & DESTRUCTIVENESS: Client is angry about past victimization. Anger is usually self-directed with self-destructive tendencies: breaking fingers and cutting. Client also reports lashing out at people without reason, or overreacting to minor irritations (outbursts range from verbal and physical attacks, to breaking things, to attempted murder [Connor, Elena]). History of Alcohol Abuse. Doesn't trust herself to take care of children properly, though has no history of abusing children._

_SUICIDAL & HOMICIDAL THOUGHT & ACTIONS: Client reports having had fantasies/dreams about killing/being killed by her rapists [Roland, Methos, Kronos, Silas, Caspian, various others]. Has had suicidal thoughts and attempts (and successes!) in the past, most recent Nov 96 (drowning and freezing to death preferred methods because they "don't hurt as much.") No suicidal tendencies reported at this time._

___  
><em>TRAUMAABUSE HISTORY_

_As an adult, saw family members killed, was held captive and enslaved (developed Stockholm Syndrome for one captor [Methos]), repeated rape (both group and single), tortured, experienced war and hostage situations, battered woman in long-term abusive relationship [Roland], forced into prostitution, witnessed her children being abducted, tortured, and killed._

_PRESENTING PROBLEMS_  
><em>1. 296.33 Major Depression, recurrent and severe<em>  
><em>2. 309.81 Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, past sexual, physical, verbal, and emotional abuse<em>  
><em>3. Generalized Anxiety Disorder<em>  
><em>4. Suicidal and Homicidal ideation<em>  
><em>5. Low self-esteem<em>  
><em>6. Obsessive Rumination<em>

_TREATMENT OBJECTIVES (MEASURES)_

_1. Depression: Challenge negative cognitions: increase coping skills, develop internal resources. Measure by self-report and assessment of functioning with regard to basic life tasks._  
><em>2. PTSD: Process earlier trauma; develop coping skills; develop boundaries. Standard battered woman approach, with early attention to Stockholm syndrome and survivor's guilt. Measure by ability to cope with daily life tasks.<em>  
><em>3. Obsessive rumination: decrease obsessions; increase appropriate coping skills.<em>

_Individual X Weekly. Will reduce frequency as symptoms decrease by report._

_PROGNOSIS_  
><em>Client is highly motivated to change, is no longer in an abusive relationship, is no longer drinking, and has close supportive friends. However, amount and duration of trauma will probably require long-term treatment and follow-up.<em>

_—_

"A lot of follow-up," Jennifer murmured and put the report away.

Cassandra arrived early, as she always did, and Jennifer offered her a cup of tea. Cassandra accepted, but she left it sitting on the end-table and wandered distractedly around the room, staring out the window, looking at the pictures, reaching for books and replacing them with only a glance at the covers. She ended up in the corner near the window, picking dead leaves off the spider-plant and shredding them into thin strips with her nails.

Jennifer said nothing, giving Cassandra a chance to settle down enough to tell her what was wrong. Cassandra was dressed in black and gray, as usual—black jeans, black leather boots, a loose gray sweater over a black turtleneck. Dangling silver earrings were her only jewelry; she wasn't even wearing a watch.

Cassandra set the withered leaf pieces in the dirt around the stem of the plant, then brushed off her hands and sat down in the chair across from Jennifer. "I'm going to see Methos," she announced. "Tomorrow morning."

Jennifer set down her cup of tea. "Cassandra—"

Cassandra jumped up and began walking around, her arms folded across her chest. "He's at the beginning of everything," she said, then stopped and tossed back her hair, facing Jennifer defiantly. "I need to know. Isn't that what you said? I have to remember the truth about the past before I can begin to deal with it?"

Jennifer nodded, not responding to Cassandra's anger. "It just seems ... early."

"Maybe you're right," Cassandra admitted after a moment, and she sat down again. "But I need to know, and I'm not waiting anymore. I can't remember the truth if I don't know what it is. Methos can give me the truth."

"But will he?" Jennifer asked. "You said he was a good liar."

"Oh, he is," Cassandra said, reaching for her tea then leaning back in her chair. "But so am I. And I know how to get the truth out of him, one way or another."

As always, Jennifer found Cassandra's sudden switch from needy vulnerability to ruthless competence unsettling, but she wasn't fooled by Cassandra's show of bravado. Jennifer knew how difficult it was for a victim to confront an abuser—how your stomach tightened and your legs trembled and your heart hammered against your ribs while fear lay sour and metallic on the back of your tongue, and yet you forced yourself to stand there and look the bastard in the eye and tell him what you needed to say, even if he didn't want to hear. Oh, yes, Jennifer knew. "You're afraid of him, aren't you?" she asked.

Cassandra put her tea back on the table untouched, then picked obsessively at the fabric in the arm of the chair with her nails, a scratching, clicking sound. "Yes," she finally admitted. "Or at least afraid of how he makes me feel. I don't think he'll hurt me." She folded her hands tightly in her lap, forced them to be quiet. "But I need to face him, and my fear, before I can face myself. I need to know I can do that much, and do it on my own."

Jennifer nodded, pleased that Cassandra was ready to take some control of her life. "All right," Jennifer said. "Let's talk about ways for you to handle fear, and rage." And a host of other emotions, too.

* * *

><p><strong>FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES<strong>

_**Saturday Morning, 5 April 1997**_  
><em><strong>Brighton Beach, England<strong>__  
><em>

Methos got to the deserted pier fifteen minutes early, then stood there waiting, hunched into his coat. The carousel stood silent behind a fence, the brightly-painted horses frozen in a circle, going nowhere even when moving. A solitary walker picked his way among the water-smoothed rocks of the beach, and Methos watched a cargo boat pass slowly by.

Five minutes later, Cassandra arrived. She walked directly toward him, her gray coat swirling just above her black leather boots. She stopped three paces away. "Well, here we are," Methos said. She just looked at him, waiting. "You said you wanted to talk," he reminded her, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

"No," she contradicted. "I said we needed to talk."

Methos nodded. All right, if that's the way she wanted it: serious and to the point, just get it over with, rip the bandage off the wound. Fine by him. "You also said we needed to go beyond the night."

"Yes," she agreed and started to walk along the pier. "We do." Methos walked with her, not very close, his hands shoved into his coat pockets. He counted the benches as he went by—twenty-two. They reached the end of the pier, stood suspended between sea and sky, faded boards creaking underfoot. She stared out at the water as she spoke. "I need to know what I was to you."

Methos moistened his lips. "What do you mean?"

"What was I to you?" she asked again, facing him now. The chill breeze whipped strands of her hair across her face. She ignored them. "Just a slave, no different than the others? Useful to have around for cleaning and cooking? A convenient fuck?"

It had started that way.

"Or was I a source of amusement as well as comfort? Were you laughing at your little toy?"

"No," he said hoarsely, but he didn't think she heard him at all.

"Or perhaps I was an experiment in taming," she mused. "A test of your powers, to see just how thoroughly you could brainwash me. Was that it?"

"That was part of it," he admitted. "At first."

"When did it change? The first week? The first month?"

Methos released a slow puff of air and shook his head. "It's been three thousand years, Cassandra. I don't remember all the—"

"Do you remember this?" she interrupted. Cassandra took hold of the little finger of her left hand and wrenched it sideways, breaking it at the first joint. Methos winced at the crack of bone. "And this?" she asked and broke her ring finger in the same way. Her expression didn't change at all, not even a blink. "And this?" She moved on to the middle finger and broke it, then crooned, "And this," as she snapped the last finger with another sharp crack. "And, of course, this," she concluded serenely, bending her thumb almost to that agonizing angle that will send a person to her knees. The rest of her hand dangled grotesquely, knotted into tendrils of pain.

"Cassandra, stop," Methos said firmly, hoping his words would reach her. He knew he couldn't touch her, couldn't lay a hand on her. Ever.

"Why?" she asked, bending her thumb just a little more. Her lips thinned slightly, her only visible sign of discomfort. "You didn't."

No. He hadn't. During the weeks of her taming, he used to break her fingers one by one, first one hand and then the other. It was quick, it was easy, it didn't require any tools, and it didn't make a bloody mess. And it was very effective. Her defiance would usually disappear by the third finger, and by the sixth or seventh she would be promising to do anything, anything, if only he would stop hurting her. Sometimes he stopped, sometimes he didn't. It depended on his mood. If she had been particularly stubborn or rebellious, he would force her to her knees and order her to pleasure him. Combining pain and helplessness with humiliation was an effective technique for instilling instant obedience. Methos had learned that lesson from a master.

No more. Ever. "I've stopped now," he said.

"Oh, yes," she agreed, finally releasing her thumb. "That's right. You've changed." She examined her left hand, turning it this way and that with a detached fascination. The crooked joints looked swollen, like oak galls on tangled twigs. With the ease of long practice, Cassandra pulled on each finger in turn, setting the fingers straight before they finished healing. Methos forced himself to watch through the crack and grind of bone. Then she began stroking the back of her hand with a gentle finger, following the tendons out to the fingertips, caressing what had just been broken, an obsessive ritual of pain.

Methos grimaced in distaste. Did she do that every day, every morning when she woke up, like brushing her hair? "Cassandra, stop," he said again, and she looked up in confused surprise, as if she had forgotten he was there, or as if she didn't even know who he was. And _that_ was somehow even more disturbing.

She folded her arms across her chest and tucked her hands away under her arms, holding them, hiding them. "Do you remember that?" she asked, focused on him again.

"I remember," Methos said softly, but he knew he had to prove it to her. He held up his left hand and broke his own fingers, one by one. He tried to keep his face as expressionless as she had, but he couldn't stop his lips from tightening with each snap. Not a blood oath between brothers this time, no knife across the palm, but then he and Cassandra were already bound together by pain. This just made it official.

She watched his fingers heal, then kept staring at his hands, hands that had tortured her and caressed her, hands that had killed her and made love to her. "I hate you," she said, with no emotion at all behind the words.

Methos nodded as he hid his own hands, jamming them deep within the pockets of his coat. "You have reason to." There had been times he'd hated himself. He'd gotten over the self-hatred, but she obviously hadn't. He'd failed to bring Kronos out of the darkness; Methos didn't want to fail with her, too. "Cassandra, if we're going to go beyond the night, we have to put this behind us and move on. We can't change what happened."

"Change what happened," she repeated with slow and elaborate sarcasm. "You should be a politician, Methos; you're so good with words. It didn't just 'happen.' You made it happen."

All right, if an admission of his guilt would make her feel better, he could do that. Telling the truth wasn't that hard.

Was it? One way to find out. "I can't change what I did to you," Methos said.

"Do you want to?"

"Do I want to?" he asked incredulously. "What do you think?"

"I don't know," she said simply. "I don't know you at all. That's why we're here. I need to know, and I need to know the truth. What was there between us?"

Methos stared off into the murky water, forcing himself to remember one of those thousand things he'd tried so hard to forget.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Horsemen's Camp<strong>_  
><em><strong>The Bronze Age<strong>_

The raid had been a good one—plenty of booty, plenty of blood—but it had been a long ride in the hot sun. Methos was looking forward to the comforts of his tent. All of them.

She was waiting for him, of course, standing just inside the tent flap. She knew what was expected of her now. She picked up his cloak when he dropped it on the floor, then brought him water to drink. Methos lounged back on the pillows, and she knelt at his feet, her head down, waiting. It was a relaxing change from her first days with him, when he'd had to keep her tied day and night, when she'd fought him at every turn.

It hadn't taken long to tame her, not even a full a moon-cycle, a little less than usual. He hadn't had to be as careful with her as with the others. This slave couldn't be ruined beyond repair. No matter what he did to her, what level of training he used, she was still in his tent, her skin smooth and unmarred, her beauty undiminished, waiting for him, day after day. Night after night. He'd gotten a little carried away at times, caught up in the power of control, but that was over now. She hadn't needed any reminders for days.

Methos reached out to her, ran his fingers through the soft curls of her hair. She didn't move until he tugged at them, and then she came to him and lay down by his side. She knew what was expected of her now.

Afterward, Methos kept her in his bed, still toying with her hair. Linik's hair had been this color, he remembered, but longer, down to her hips. They had been married nearly twenty years, lived together by the shore of the great inland sea. She had been a diver, plunging deep to bring back the tiny shells that yielded the precious purple dye, while Methos fished for their food. In the evenings, he would comb her hair for her, and then they would make love in the moonlight, her happy laughter rising to the stars.

How long ago had that been? Methos couldn't remember; the years just slipped by, sliding into each other in a long unbroken chain. Long before he'd met Kronos, anyway, and before Methos had gone back to Babylon when Hammurabi had been king.

No matter. Methos had a different woman in his bed now. He took her gently by the chin, turning her face so he could kiss her. She flinched at his touch then lay passively, waiting for whatever he decided to do. Her eyes were empty—hopeless and dead. Methos suddenly realized he had never heard her laughter, never seen her smile.

He wanted to. It would be good to come back to a woman who was pleased to see him instead of one who trembled with fear. A man needed some rest and relaxation, after all, and he was tired of doing all the work in bed. Oh, she did what he told her to, of course, but without much enthusiasm. He hadn't had a woman make love to him in a very long time. Methos missed that. And if he wanted something rougher, he could always get another slave. This one was Immortal, and she could be his for a very long time.

He considered her carefully, making his plans, enjoying the thrill of a new challenge. He'd broken her already, now to gentle her. It shouldn't take too long.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Brighton Beach<strong>_**  
><strong>

"I wanted there to be something more between us," Methos told her. "I was lonely."

Cassandra shook her head. That was part of the truth, of course, but not all of it, and certainly not the most important part. She wasn't going to let him get away with more of his pathetic excuses and elaborate justifications. "You were selfish. You wanted a willing slave instead of a terrified one, so you deliberately set out to seduce me."

Methos sighed in exasperation. "All right, yes. At first. But I tried to make your life in the camp better. I tried—"

"You didn't try hard enough," she broke in. His exasperation was shifting to irritation, and Cassandra knew he was almost ready. Just a few more pushes. "Kronos took me from you, and you did nothing to stop him," she said, reminding him of his impotence.

"He was my brother. We shared everything."

"Really?" she asked, drawling the word out to an insulting denial. "He had you tamed, just as you had tamed me." Time for an attack on his courage. "You were too afraid to challenge him."

"You have no idea what was between us."

"No?" she replied, mocking him with all the power of the Voice. "You were afraid to challenge Kronos in Bordeaux. You suckered MacLeod into doing it for you." She'd done the same thing when she'd gotten Duncan to take Roland's head, of course, but Methos didn't know that, and she wasn't about to tell him. Cassandra kept pushing. "MacLeod thought you were his friend, and you set him up. Oh, he survived, no thanks to you, but you were perfectly willing to sacrifice him for your own survival." She advanced on him, letting her own anger come forth now, giving her the strength and the courage she needed to confront this man. "How many others have you sacrificed, Methos? Have many times have you just stood by and watched?"

"I fought Silas in Bordeaux," he reminded her, tight-lipped with anger. "I killed my brother to save your life."

Cassandra knew that wasn't the whole truth, either. "Who were you saving from the Horsemen, Methos? Me, or yourself?"

Methos opened his mouth, then shut it. "Both," he admitted. "I wanted us both to survive. I wanted us _all_ to survive: my brothers, MacLeod, you, me. But I had to make a choice, and I chose to sacrifice my brothers."

"And you expect me to be impressed by this show of altruism?"

That did it. "What the hell do you want from me, Cassandra?" Methos snarled at her in frustration. "I have nothing left to give!"

Cassandra stood her ground. "What was I to you?" she asked again, as she had asked earlier. "Your slave? Your toy? Your little experiment gone too far?"

"You were my woman," Methos snapped at her, "and I didn't want you to die. Kronos would have taken your head if I had protested, so I had to let you go."

And _that_ was what she had wanted to know. She walked away from Methos, to the very edge of the pier, stood so that her toes were over the water, stood waiting, suspended between sea and sky, with nothing fixed, nothing solid, nothing to trust. She had lived that way most of her life.

But those words of his she could trust; those had been Truth. She had heard it in his voice. She had been his woman, not just his slave. He had cared, at least a little. It hadn't all been a lie. She'd been wondering about that recently. For millennia she'd been convinced he hadn't cared at all, that he and his brothers had been laughing at her for being stupid enough to pant after Methos like a well-trained bitch. It was a dull relief to know she hadn't been completely gullible and blind. But blind enough. Well-trained enough.

And enough of a bitch to want to kill him right now, to rip his throat open with her bare hands and watch his blood drip into the water, drop by drop. That selfish, conceited, arrogant, murdering butcher!

Cassandra took a deep breath and let it out slowly, let the anger go, too, as Jennifer and she had practiced. Methos wasn't worth it. He just wasn't worth that much of her time, and a lot of her rage was anger with herself. Jennifer had described the Stockholm Syndrome to her, given her books to read. Cassandra understood what had happened now. It wasn't her fault; she hadn't been stupid. Anyone could be brainwashed; anyone could be convinced they loved their captors. Anyone, male or female, young or old. It happened all the time. She was not to blame.

Methos joined her in looking out to the horizon, to where gray sea met gray sky, and seagulls hung tethered on the wind. "Why did you want me to get angry?"

She wasn't surprised he'd seen through that little manipulation. She had no doubt he did it, too. "In anger, truth."

He scuffed at a crack in the wood of the pier with his toe, prying up a splinter. "You could have asked."

"I did. First you said you didn't know what I meant, and then you said you were lonely."

He almost laughed at that, then sobered. "I did care for you, Cassandra. You reminded me of a life I'd left behind. I wanted ... I tried ..." The splinter broke loose, and he kicked it into the sea. "It wasn't all bad between us."

He was right. It hadn't been "all bad." Cassandra remembered.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Horsemen's Camp<strong>_

She did not move as her master lay down beside her. She was trembling, and she knew it wasn't just from the cold. She could feel the warmth of his body all along her back. She didn't want to feel it. She didn't want to feel anything.

But she could. She could smell the scents of him, horses and dust and oil, and she could hear his breathing. That was his hand pulling a blanket over her; that was his arm brushing against her own, the smooth touch of skin against skin. That was his voice, very soft and close to her ear. "Relax. I won't hurt you."

This time. Maybe. He hadn't hit her for days; she had been careful not to give him any reason to. He hadn't touched her for days, either. She had slept alone or with the other slaves. She liked it that way. But tonight he had told her to stay in his tent, and she knew she must obey. She kept her eyes closed and did not answer. She was still trembling, but he didn't tell her to do anything. He just lay close to her, his arm around her, keeping her warm. And she did relax, eventually, even fell asleep, nestled close against him.

When she woke, it was still dark, and her master was still there, still holding her. But he wasn't asleep either; his fingers were moving very gently, very delicately, along the curve of her cheek, tracing the bone there, learning the shape of her, as if he had never touched her before.

And he hadn't, not this way. She was glad she couldn't see him. She knew she had to submit to him, and since he was behind her, she could pretend it was someone else. And it seemed to be someone else. He wasn't hitting her, wasn't ordering her to spread her legs or bend over or kneel. He was just ... holding her and touching her, slowly and carefully. He whispered as he kissed his way along the sensitive spot behind her ear, "This doesn't have to hurt."

She wanted it to hurt. She wanted it to be brutal and quick and painful, so she could simply hide from it all and pretend to feel nothing. He was making her body feel things it hadn't felt before. It felt good, and she wanted more.

She didn't want to want more. She didn't want to want him at all, and she did, with all the blind nuzzling need of a newborn. She was so tired, and so cold, and she hurt so much. She didn't want to think or remember anymore. She wanted to go home.

His arms were strong around her, and his hands were gentle. He was murmuring words in a language she couldn't even name, yet the words seemed to mean something before they slipped away. They reminded her of another time and another place, when she had been little and safe and loved, another life. It seemed so long ago.

Her eyes were still closed, and she was crying, tears of exhaustion and fear and sorrow. He gently brushed away her tears, then he bent his head to hers and kissed the tears away one by one as they came. His kisses moved lower, down to her throat, to the hollow in the center where his thumbs had so often crushed the life out of her. But he wasn't hurting her now. Maybe if she just lay still he wouldn't hurt her. She couldn't bear any more pain.

And there was no pain—just slow uncoiling tendrils of warmth and pleasure. His hands and his mouth touched her, caressed her, summoning shivers of need and aches of desire. She had never felt this way before, and she couldn't lie still anymore.

When he kissed her again, she could feel the smile on his lips, and he lifted his head and laughed softly, but it didn't sound like him. He sounded pleased, even happy, instead of cruel or taunting. "You taste of sunshine," he whispered, then kissed—and tasted—the side of her neck. Then he moved lower, to her breasts. "And here you taste of pomegranates." He moved lower still. "And here ..."

He kept talking to her, sweet soothing words, gentle arousing touches, soft laughter and kisses and smiles. And it felt good. It felt wonderful. He didn't have to tell her to spread her legs for him this time.

"Be at ease," he whispered, and then he started to move. He was gentle and slow at first, a simple soothing rocking motion that her body somehow knew and responded to, and his murmured words went on. His fingers brushed the tendrils of hair back from her face, and traced the curve of her cheek. His rhythm increased and now she moved with him, wrapping her legs around him, responding to the desperate need within herself not to be alone anymore.

"Please," she said, but she didn't know what she was asking for, and he did not answer. He held her tight against him as he shuddered and plunged deep, then finally lay still. He kissed her again, and murmured more words, then he held her all night, as they slept together in the dark of the tent.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Brighton Beach<strong>_

Methos had never hurt her again. He had not needed to. She was tamed. One drop of kindness in an ocean of pain, and she had lapped it up desperately and begged for more. Methos had obliged, and her memories of the weeks of terror and pain had receded, too terrible to be borne. Within days, she had lived for only one thing: keeping Methos happy, so the pain would never come again. And it had worked, for a while.

Cassandra turned from the sea. Methos had moved to sit on a nearby bench, leaning forward slightly, his hands clasped together above his knees, a schoolboy pose, looking oh-so-earnest and appealing. She recognized acting when she saw it. She knew how to do it, too.

"You're right," she admitted. "It wasn't 'all bad.' But it wasn't good. Not for you, not for me. It wasn't real. You destroyed the person I was, and I was just a slave, a thing, your little robot, programmed to be quiet and obedient and loving." Programmed to worship him, to see him as her savior, her protector, her god. Brainwashed into doing whatever he wanted, no matter what he wanted. That wasn't unusual, either, she knew. She'd read about cults and conditioning. People would kill at a word from their leader, kill an enemy, kill their children, or even kill themselves. Except they weren't real people anymore; they were slaves, just like she had been. Cassandra shook her head, remembering those days. "I didn't even have a name."

Methos rubbed his hands over his face, then pressed them together, looking now like a schoolboy at prayer. He stood and faced her, his hands at his sides instead of in his pockets. "I had a name for you, toward the end. Right before you left, I saw you in the rain, dancing."

Her tribe had always danced when it rained, to offer their thanks to the goddess of the waters in song and prayer. Cassandra hadn't danced for centuries, and she didn't remember that dance anymore.

Methos came closer to her, almost close enough to reach out and touch. His eyes were ever-changing gray and green flecked with gold, like sunlight dancing on long ocean swells. "I thought of you as Ki-e-nida," Methos said softly, "a place of dancing, and I went to be with you, in the rain."

He had called her that, when they had made love in that rare desert rain, while the water from the heavens poured over their bodies and washed away all the dust in the air. But he had often spoken in languages she didn't know, and she hadn't asked him what it meant. That evening in his tent, Methos had made love to her again, and then she had made love to him, happy to please him, wanting to give him everything she was.

Two days later, Kronos had come and demanded his turn with the "spoils of war," and Methos had given her away.

"You were my woman," Methos reminded her now, "and I didn't want to let you go. But I did want you to live."

Cassandra took a turn at the loose wood of the board, grinding it down with her heel, trying to get it to lie flat. "Well, I survived."

"I didn't think it would be that bad for you, but once it started, I couldn't interfere."

She gaped at him in shock. Not that bad? Not that _bad_? What had he thought Kronos would do? Tell her to cook him dinner? Ask for a back rub? All day long she had resisted, all day long she had called for her master, begged him to stop the beatings and the rapes and the pain, and all day long he had stayed in his tent, listening to her screams, because he hadn't wanted to _interfere_.

Methos asked in bewilderment, "Why did you keep fighting him all that time? If you'd given in, he wouldn't have hurt you. If you'd just let him..." He shook his head, seeming almost annoyed with her. "You knew you were a slave, Cassandra. You should have known better than to resist by then."

"You stupid, stupid man," she told him, fighting to speak through the rage and to hold back the tears. "I wasn't resisting to protect myself. I knew you didn't want him to have me, not really, so I was protecting _your _property."

Methos's mouth hung open, and then he closed his eyes as if he were in pain. "My God, Cassandra," Methos whispered, looking sickened. "I would never have asked you to do that."

"You didn't have to ask me, Methos. I would have done anything for you." She kept her head high as she let the tears fall, both because she couldn't stop them anymore and because she knew that right now, crying in front of Methos was about the best weapon she had. "Anything," she repeated, and she meant it. He had been her god, and she would have killed for him, or died for him. She would have whored for him, too; she had no doubt of that at all. "I would have gone with Kronos willingly, or Silas or even Caspian, if you had told me to."

Methos was shaking his head. "You don't—"

"Just one word from you," she broke in, fracturing his words, "one look to tell me 'yes.' But you wouldn't give me even that."

His face had gone white. "Cassandra—"

"They were your brothers," Cassandra interrupted again, an ice-cold rage flooding through her, freezing that fountain of tears. "You shared everything. You must have known they would come for me eventually."

Methos opened his mouth, shut it, looked away, then looked at her again. "Yes."

"And yet, you wanted me think that I was _yours_, and that I lived to serve only you."

Methos started to speak, then gave her a curt nod.

"Selfish to the core," she murmured, staring into those golden-tinted eyes, seeing nothing she had not seen in him before. He hadn't changed that much. "Well, congratulations, Methos. Your plan worked. I was yours—body, mind, and soul." She paused long enough for that to sink in, then added, softly, slowly, wanting him to know exactly what he had done, and exactly what he had lost, "And then you gave me away."

Cassandra didn't wait for his answer, but turned and left him standing there. A seagull circled and came to settle on the waves, a gray-hooded bird of white going nowhere, riding mindlessly up and down. Methos stood at the end of the pier, looking at the sea and listening to the gulls' lonesome cries echoing over the receding clicks of Cassandra's boot heels on the wooden planks. One of a thousand regrets, indeed. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.

One word, one look, and he could have saved her a nightmare of pain. Oh, not so much all the physical pain, because Caspian would probably have beaten her whether she was willing or not, but if Methos had told her that he did care and that he wanted her back, then she might not have hated and despised herself through the years. Or, at least, not so much. And when she had been with the Horsemen, Methos could have warned her, prepared her somehow. He'd known that, just as he'd known that he could avoid a confrontation with Kronos by offering to swap women for the night, or by inviting one of his brothers over for a threesome, as they'd done many times before.

But Methos hadn't wanted to share. She had been his woman, his alone, reminding him of other days and other lives. He had deliberately told her nothing and kept her for himself. "Selfish to the core," he repeated, and it had been true; he hadn't considered her feelings at all. By trying to keep her for himself, he'd lost her completely—then and now. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and Methos knew she'd never forgive him. He'd murdered her family, raped her, beaten her, enslaved her... If she ever acknowledged that he'd changed, then she might, eventually, be able to put that behind her, but forgive him for not valuing her love? Forgive him for not valuing _her_? Not a chance.

Damn.

Methos caught up to her about halfway back to shore. She had wiped away all marks of her tears. "I guess 'sorry' doesn't quite cut it, does it?" he said.

"Why don't you try and find out?"

He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Cassandra," he said, and he was—sorry for so many things over the years. She gave him a quick nod and blinked back more tears, and Methos said, "I didn't know. I didn't realize ..."

She shrugged and walked faster. "It's over, Methos. I don't think either of us ever wants to talk about it again."

He certainly didn't. It was sickening enough to remember.

"But there is one more thing," she said, then let out a shuddering sigh before she said calmly, "Did you come after my tribe because of me?"

He didn't want to talk about this, either, and he sure as hell didn't want to remember. But she had asked, and he owed her the truth. "Yes," he admitted, and she stopped walking to hide her face from him, to look out to the water again. He kept talking, though her back was rigid and her fingers were gripping white-knuckled on the rail. "I'd seen you out gathering plants a few days before, and I knew you would be an Immortal, so I planned the raid. That's why you ended up in my tent, even though Kronos killed you. I saw you first."

"You couldn't have taken me then, that day?" she asked, the words brittle. "Like Hades dragging Persephone to Hell, yet leaving her friends behind?" She was crying again, more silent tears; he could hear it in her voice. "You had to kill everyone I loved?"

"Had to?" Methos said, moving to stand beside her, four feet away, not looking at her at all. "No. But it was good tactics. With your tribe gone, you had nowhere to go." Methos swallowed, trying to get the bitter taste from his mouth. Had he really been that cold-blooded?

Yes. Oh, thrice-damned bloody yes, he had. "We would have come anyway, Cassandra," he told her, trying to explain it away, to make it easier for her to bear. "It just ... happened sooner, that's all."

"That's all," she repeated dully, then shook her head and walked on.

Methos gave her some more time alone before he followed. He had a few questions of his own to ask, because he didn't really know her at all. "So, um, what happened to you, after you left?"

"You mean after I killed Kronos while he was raping me and then escaped?" she said sharply, reminding him of just how she had left. Methos acknowledged that with a sigh and a nod, and she continued, "I wandered for some years then went to the Isle of Lesbos. The Lady of the Temple of Artemis was an Immortal, and she explained to me what I was. I spent a century there and became a priestess, learned the Voice, studied astronomy, music, healing ... many things. I married, raised three children."

"So, you did have a life," he said in relief.

"Of course, I had a life," she said impatiently. "Many lives. What did you think?"

"You did say that not only your body died in Kronos's tent."

Cassandra stopped walking again, but she faced him this time. "I meant the woman who had been stupid enough to be your slave died that night. You thought a year with you was enough to destroy me forever?"

Well, good God, she'd certainly acted like a maniac when he'd seen her last year. What was he supposed to think?

"Talk about conceit," she said in disgust. "There were entire centuries where I never thought about you at all."

"Then why are you still breaking your fingers?" he challenged. "Over and over again?"

Cassandra tossed her hair back dismissively. "As I told you in Bordeaux, Methos, you were merely the first man to enslave me. You certainly weren't the last. Other people know that technique. I've used it myself, on occasion." Methos blinked in surprise at that little tidbit of information, and she said malevolently, "I've had many lives."

"So have I," he shot back. They stared at each other, then they both shrugged at the same time and began walking. "Yet never to have lived is best, ancient writers say," Methos quoted.

"And what ancient writer ever said that?"

"William Butler Yeats. He's not ancient, though, died in 1939." Cassandra was staring at him, clueless, and Methos said in surprise, "You don't read poetry?"

"Not lately."

Methos quoted the next line for her. "Never to have drawn the breath of life; never to have looked into the eye of day."

Cassandra came up with her own version. "Never to have seen the face of Death, and then seen it peeled away."

"You wanted me to stay Death?" Methos asked, trying to make sense of that.

"When I was with you? Yes. Then I wouldn't have been stupid enough to trust you. You took off one mask, but there was another underneath."

And another under that. "How many masks do you wear, Cassandra?" Methos challenged, then asked her the same question MacLeod had asked him, "Who are you really?"

"I don't know," she admitted, suddenly sounding almost fragile. "Not anymore. That's why I'm here."

And that was why he was here as well. He owed her this much, at least, to try to help her heal. Methos reached into his coat and pulled out a business card. "Here's my e-mail address. You can write, if you need ... if you have any more questions."

Cassandra took it, carefully avoiding his fingers. "You're certainly being cooperative."

"I didn't help you then," he said. "I'd like to help you now."

"Is this to stop me from plotting revenge?"

Methos glanced at her sidelong. "The thought had crossed my mind."

Cassandra smiled to herself. "Mine, too."

He had no doubt of that. "You had your chance."

"And so did you," she retorted. "Yet we're both still alive."

Methos wasn't sure it was the best time to bring this up, but he needed to know, and they were almost back to shore. "So, why didn't you kill me in Bordeaux?"

Cassandra sighed and sat on the nearest bench. Methos leaned on the railing nearby. "MacLeod made me stop and think," she admitted. "I hadn't done much thinking those last few days—those last few months. I realized I didn't want to be a murderer, like Kronos."

"Or like me."

"Like you used to be," she amended.

Methos paused, taken aback by her easy acceptance. "Sure of that?"

"MacLeod is. And since I don't know you, I'm trusting his judgement in this." Her eyes narrowed in warning. "For now."

Ah, there were the claws he'd been expecting to see. Methos felt obscurely reassured by the threat.

"You live because I wish it, Methos," she said, throwing his own words back in his face. A faint smile crossed her face. "Never forget that."

He wasn't likely to. He'd had a few nightmares about Cassandra standing over him with an axe in her hands.

"And I want you to live," Cassandra continued serenely, "because after I let go of the axe, I finally _saw _you, saw you on your knees, crying for your brothers. I knew then that the Furies would take you into madness, unto Death, and beyond. So I left you to face them alone."

And there was the viciousness behind the claws. Cassandra hadn't changed all that much from Bordeaux. "Gee, thanks," Methos murmured.

She met his sarcasm with a withering blast of her own. "My pleasure."

His pain. He had taught her that, too, taking pleasure in another's pain. Enough. Time to move on. "Want to get something to eat?" he suggested, hoping to end this discussion on a more pleasant note. "Some coffee?"

"I'm not that hungry," she said, standing. "Let's do something fun."

"Fun?" he asked, wondering if he had heard her correctly.

"We never had much of a chance to laugh," she reminded him. "Let's take that chance now."

Methos looked around at the Marine Palace, just starting to come to life with tourists and children and noise. "All right," he agreed, wondering just what she was up to. He would never in a million years trust this woman—she had too many reasons to hate him—but if being agreeable made her less angry with him, he could do that. For now. "Let's."

* * *

><p>Around noon, they went to a pub for lunch. Cassandra ordered half a pint. "You like beer?" Methos asked.<p>

"Oh, yes," she said. "I often worked in the breweries at the nunneries I lived in, all through the Middle Ages. Do you like beer?"

"Uh, yeah. Sometimes," he admitted. "They have good beer here in Brighton." They chatted about different brewing techniques until the food arrived, then he asked her about her hobbies.

"Sewing, cooking, gardening," she said. "Music, of course. I used to make pottery, and I've started drawing again."

"Quite the domestic goddess, aren't you?" Methos observed, but it came out rather more sharply than he had intended, and he groaned inwardly, too tired to deal with any more of her rage.

Cassandra only looked at him. Then she set down her knife, laying it precisely on the edge of her plate, and answered evenly, "I'm a maker, a shaper, and a dreamer of dreams." Her tone sharpened into a challenge. "What are you, Methos?"

She'd known him as a taker, a destroyer, and a nightmare that kept people awake at night. But before that, he had been many things: statesman and farmer, architect and blacksmith, slave and priest and king. And after, he'd swung from luxuriating in sybaritic Epicureanism to barely existing as an ascetic hermit in a rocky desert, doing decades of penance for his misdeeds. He'd gone from anarchist to pacifist to passivist. Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief. What was he now? MacLeod had asked him that question in the church in Bordeaux, and Methos hadn't answered. He hadn't wanted to. In the midst of the Horsemen, he hadn't been any too sure. Now ...

Methos summoned all his charm. "I'm a scholar, a healer, and a connoisseur of good beer." Wonder of wonders, he'd actually gotten her to smile.

"Perhaps we do have something in common," she admitted.

Methos lifted his glass to her and, after a moment, she lifted hers in return. They finished their meal with light chatter of the best types of cheese. "So," he said, after she had pushed her plate aside and paid for her food, "have we gone beyond the night?"

"I think I can see the red cracks of a dawn. And you?"

"Me?" Methos asked, with a show of complete innocence. "I'm fine."

"MacLeod said you'd gone to Holy Ground."

Sometimes MacLeod talked too much. "Just needed a little peace and quiet."

"Did you find it?"

"Plenty of quiet. A little peace."

"Is it really quiet for you, Methos? Or do you still hear the voices in your mind?" At his jerk of surprise, she smiled faintly. "I dreamt of you, standing crucified in blood. And I heard the voices calling your name."

Methos looked down at his plate then admitted, "They're still there." Nightmares that kept him awake at night, the continuing torture of Beyond.

"Good." Cassandra folded her napkin neatly and placed it on the table. "Have you seen him yet?"

"Who, MacLeod?" Methos asked, though he knew perfectly well who she meant. "No." Methos had only gotten back to Paris a week or so ago, and he'd been busy since then. "When did you see him?"

"In December," she answered but gave no more details. "He's a good friend. To me, and to you."

"Yeah." Methos swallowed painfully. "He is." And they hadn't exactly made it easy for him. Methos folded his own napkin, took a sip of beer. "How did you two meet?"

"Oh, it was a magical evening," Cassandra said, smiling again, a smile of secrets and power. "He was very young."

Methos ran over MacLeod's chronicles in his mind, trying to remember the early years. Oh, of course! Cassandra had been the Witch of Donan Woods. There hadn't been much on the Witch, no name and only three chronicles spanning a century or so. Methos had considered Rebecca for the role, or maybe Ceirdwyn. But he'd believed Cassandra long dead, beheaded at the fall of Troy by Roland, so he'd never even thought of her at all. Coincidence that she had been in the Highlands during the same time as both Connor and Duncan MacLeod? Methos was willing to bet on something more.

"And how did you and MacLeod meet?" she inquired.

"About two years ago, he was looking for a legend, and he found me." Cassandra lifted an ironic eyebrow at that, and Methos shrugged apologetically and reached for his beer.

Cassandra watched him drink, then abruptly pushed back her chair. "I have to go."

"Back to your job?" Methos asked, wondering where Cassandra was working and what she was doing. He'd left the Watchers last summer, and he missed the easy access to basic information. He could find her now, though. He'd seen the name Catherine S. Grant on her credit card when she had paid for her lunch, and he knew she probably lived somewhere in the British Isles, or maybe France or Denmark, but not too far away.

"No," Cassandra replied as she picked up her purse and her coat. "I have a date tonight."

"Going to ride the carousel again? Or play miniature golf this time?"

"Dinner and dancing. And after that..." She smiled to herself, but when she met his eyes, there was no amusement there. "Methos," she said with a nod, and then she stood to leave.

Methos stood, too, old habits of courtesy coming back to him now, and they nodded to each other once more before she quickly turned away. He watched her walk through the crowded pub, her back straight, her head high, her long hair swaying with the gentle swing of her backside in snug, black jeans. He wasn't the only one looking. A man jumped up to open the door for her, and Cassandra gave him a brilliant smile with her murmured thanks. Both Methos and the man watched though the window until Cassandra disappeared from sight.

Methos went back to his beer, wondering who Cassandra would be dining and dancing with tonight. He shrugged. The meeting had gone better than he had expected; at least she hadn't tried to kill him. And she seemed sincere in trying to move on. For now. He'd keep an eye on her, just in case.

He finished his drink then started walking to the train station, eager to start on the journey back to Paris. Maybe tomorrow he would call, let MacLeod know that he was back in town, suggest they have dinner together. But first, he'd better buy some beer. Methos had promised he'd bring his own.

* * *

><p><em><strong>continued in "Prophecy"<strong>_


	2. Prophecy

_Hope Triumphant I - Healer (part 2)_

* * *

><p><strong>PROPHECY<strong>

_**Saturday Afternoon and Evening, 6 April 1997**_  
><em><strong>Brighton Beach<strong>_

Cassandra walked back to her tiny room at the bed-and-breakfast and changed into her exercise clothes, then went running, wanting to burn off some of the tension from her meeting with Methos. She ran slowly through the streets at first, warming up, thinking things through.

She'd gotten what she wanted, an answer she could live with. The finger-breaking had been a bit much, true—she hadn't planned on doing that—but all in all, the encounter had gone quite well. He wasn't that frightening, and she hadn't lost her temper. She'd proven to herself she could handle him. She couldn't control him with the Voice, but she could still influence him, and there were always other ways to manipulate men. She'd seen him looking at her, and she knew he remembered what it was to have a love-slave servicing his every whim. So did she. She could use that against him, too.

But she had no reason ever to see Methos again. Duncan had said Methos had changed, and she'd taken the opportunity to observe Methos in a variety of situations today so that she could judge for herself, even though she'd really wanted to leave him standing there on the pier as soon as they were finished talking. But that would have been weak and cowardly, and she was not going to give in to her fears anymore. Never again.

She didn't trust him—she would never trust him—but he wasn't the monster she remembered. There was no point in taking revenge now. She'd had her chance and decided against it.

Cassandra lengthened her stride when she reached the walkway that stretched alongside the stony beach, frightening a flock of seagulls into taking wing. However, if Duncan were wrong and Methos hadn't changed, or if Methos became a Horseman again ... Well, she knew she couldn't take his head—even if by some miracle she did manage to get him helpless on his knees, taking a five-thousand-year Quickening would drive her insane—but there were others willing to take on that chore. Both MacLeods had promised to help, and Cassandra had lined up a few others. Methos couldn't win against them all.

It was time to move on. Time to stop feeling stupid, time to stop feeling sorry for herself, time to get on with her life.

Goddess blast that filthy, fucking murderer! That arrogant, overbearing, selfish, conceited, self-absorbed, _stupid _man! Stupid, stupid, stupid man!

_"I didn't think it would be that bad." _

How could he have been so _blind_?

Cassandra veered off the walkway and ran stumbling on the pebbled beach, then stopped and picked up a gray rock, its edges smooth against her palms. She knelt down and started pounding the rock on another, leaving dust smears and tiny crumbles of rock behind. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid man! Stupid, stupid, stupid ...

When a small pile of dust had accumulated and a chunk of the rock had been fractured loose, Cassandra stopped and closed her eyes. All right, so Methos had been stupidly blind about her feelings for him. No surprise there. All men were stupidly blind. And maybe all women were stupidly blind in other ways. She certainly had been.

Of course, if men and women ever actually _talked _to one another, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Yeah, right. Cassandra snorted in disgust and dropped the rock, then started running up and down the walkway, over and over again. After about an hour of that, she went back to the bed-and-breakfast, showered, took a nap, then dressed in her green skirt and white tunic and went wandering through the cobble-stoned lanes of Brighton, window shopping for all manner of pretty things. She bought a simple wooden candlestick, a branch of a black-stippled birch tree, hollowed out at the core. At six o'clock, she went to meet Richie Ryan for dinner at a pub downtown.

He was waiting for her, his beer mug half empty, his leather jacket—and his sword, no doubt—on the bench beside him. "How was Monte Carlo?" Cassandra asked Richie after the waitress brought them their menus, for Richie had told her of his travel plans when they had talked on New Year's Day.

Flickers of emotion chased across Richie's face: embarrassment, amusement, irritation, and joy. "Not what I'd expected, but I met a girl named Marina. I've been helping her fix up her family's chateau. They're going to make it into a hotel, and her grandfather's going to be the chef."

"So, you never went to the Greek Isles?"

"Not yet. I've been hammering and plastering and painting, except for a week back in March. I came to Paris to set up some suppliers for her, saw Mac then, too." Richie stretched and leaned his back against the high-walled wooden booth. "Maybe Marina and I will go to Greece next year, after we get the place going." He grinned as he reached for the menu. "Or maybe not. A chateau in the south of France isn't a bad place to live."

"No," Cassandra agreed with a smile and turned her attention to the menu.

"Man, it's a relief not to have to translate," Richie said, looking over the choices. "When I first got to France, I ordered 'fruits de mer' thinking I'd get a fruit salad. Tessa helped me with my French, went over all those idioms and irregular verbs over and over again." He stared at the list of food and said quietly, "I miss her."

"I'd wish I'd met her," Cassandra said, wondering about the woman both Duncan and Richie had so obviously loved. "She must have been very special."

"She was great," Richie said simply, then turned to the waitress who had come back to take their order. "Shepherd's pie, please," he told her. "With a side of chips."

Over dinner, Cassandra and Richie talked about his childhood, his time with Duncan and Tessa, and his life since then. After dessert, they both ordered coffee, and she took out the tarot cards he had given to her as a Christmas gift and handed them to Richie to shuffle.

"How do you like them?" he asked, his fingers flashing.

"They're interesting. The colors are brighter than I've seen before, and some of the symbols are different, but I do like them." She took the deck from him, cut it into three piles, let him reassemble the stack. "Any question in particular?" she asked, holding the cards in the palm of her hand.

Richie puffed air out between his lips, then shook his head and shrugged. "Guess the meaning of life, the universe, and everything is a bit much to ask for, isn't it? How about ... what's going to happen this next year for me?"

Cassandra nodded and laid out five cards, a simple row, enough for now.

"Oh, I know this spread," Richie said. "Shelley used it a lot. She said it was easier to remember than the ones with a lot of cards."

"That's why I picked it, too," Cassandra admitted, and she returned Richie's knowing grin. "Have to start with the basics."

"Nice to know even you old ones don't know everything."

"Let's see what I've learned." Cassandra glanced first at the colors, letting them set the mood. White and blue mostly, but with crimson accents on all four of the outer cards—three gold stars on a crimson lining, a red collar around the neck of a dog, a sword handle wrapped in red winding, and a red ribbon twining over the fruit and flowers that wreathed a woman dancing in the sky. Red for courage, for life, for blood.

The first card was the question card, the Three of Pentacles, a white-bearded man chiseling white stone into the shape of feathers, feathers that could never fly. The Moon came next, the background card, telling of wildness and unknown dangers, hidden influences, a drawing of a dog and a wolf baying at the moon. "Inter canem et lupum," Cassandra murmured, remembering another idiom from a time long ago.

"Huh?" Richie asked, looking up from the spread.

"A Roman phrase," Cassandra explained, as she had once explained to Duncan. "It translates as 'between dog and wolf,' but it means the time of twilight, when you can't tell the difference between the two until it's too late."

Richie nodded and picked up the center card, looking at the picture of a young woman standing by the sea shore with a cup in her hand, the sky behind her washed in pastels from the setting sun. A bird perched on the rim of the cup, its wings outstretched, its head bent. "And the middle one is the Seeker, so this is me," Richie announced, a swagger in his voice. "The Page of Cups."

Cassandra quoted the official meaning for that card. "'A helpful youth of artistic temperament, studious and intense. Trustworthy and trusting.'"

Richie hmm-hummed in pleasure and set the card down. "Yes, indeed! Studious and intense."

"Yes, indeed," Cassandra agreed. "Or at least intense and trustworthy." And trusting.

"Mac really did tell you about me, didn't he?" Richie asked ruefully. "I never did like that math class he signed me up for, back when I moved in with him and Tessa."

"But you do well in the classes you choose, even if you don't study," Cassandra guessed, and Richie looked pleased and embarrassed.

"I guess that's the intense part," he said, and they moved on to the fourth card.

"Environment," Cassandra said, "influences on finding the answer: the Ace of Swords."

"I like the sound of that," Richie said as he pointed to the handguard of metal wings at the base of the red-handled sword, the upright blade wreathed in twining white roses against a cloudy sky. "Snoopy and the Red Baron, aces all." He looked in the booklet that came with the cards and read, "'A champion, a hero, a leader, the birth of a valiant child.' Sounds like Mac, doesn't it?"

"Maybe he's one of the 'influences on you finding the answer'?" Cassandra said, and Richie nodded. "Or maybe you're going to be the hero?" Cassandra suggested, and Richie laughed in surprise and shook his head no.

"Nah, that hero stuff isn't for me," Richie said and moved on to the last card of the five. "And for ze final card, ze outcome is ... The World!" Richie announced triumphantly. "Looks pretty good to me—a beautiful blonde babe dancing in the sky, lots of flowers and fruit, on top of the world."

This time Cassandra reached for the booklet. "'Completion, the end of a way of life, the admiration of friends ... triumph in the end.'"

"Told you!" Richie said, leaning back in the booth, linking his hands behind his head. "And not a Death card to be seen."

"Not the Death card," she agreed. Only a raised sword, the end of a way of a life, and birds who would never learn to fly. A youth being hammered into shape by hidden forces, separated from the World by a naked blade.

"So?" Richie asked. "What do you think it means?"

Cassandra took another look at the cards, reminding herself that the future was never clear, and she had often been wrong before. What else did she see? "The studious youth needs to work hard, just like the craftsman shown in the Three of Pentacles. The sword and the teacher will always influence him; danger is always part of his life. Yet, the World is within his grasp."

Richie laughed. "That's just what they always told me in school. Study hard, work hard, be careful, pay attention to my teachers, and get ahead in life."

Cassandra swept the cards into a pile and rewrapped them. "Sorry. I did tell you I'm a beginner at this."

"Maybe we can do it again later."

Cassandra smiled and tucked the deck into her purse. "That would be good." She paid for dinner, over Richie's objections. "I invited you," she reminded him, then decided to follow up on her comment to Methos earlier today, at least about the dancing. "Want to go to a club?" she suggested to Richie.

"A club?" Richie repeated in surprise.

"For dancing."

"Uh, you mean like ballroom dancing or something?"

"What has Duncan told you about me?" Cassandra murmured and smiled reassuringly, even enticingly, at the young man. "No, I heard there's a reggae band at the club above 'The Pig in Paradise' tonight. Interested?"

"Yeah!" Richie said, reaching for his coat. "As long as I don't have to dance the flamenco."

* * *

><p><strong>TAKE BACK THE NIGHT<strong>

_**Saturday Night**_  
><em><strong>Brighton Beach<strong>_

The music and the band were rocking, the drinks weren't too expensive, and the crowd was in a rowdy good mood. Cassandra and Richie danced for hours, sometimes with each other, sometimes with groups, sometimes with new partners. It was good to dance again, to know that she hadn't lost everything she'd ever loved.

"Want to dance?" asked a tall man with shoulder-length blond hair, speaking directly into her ear above the music, touching her on the arm.

"I'm thirsty," she explained, twisting away. She was thirsty, for the last set had been a fast one, and the club was hot with the press of many bodies, but she also didn't want him to touch her. His brown eyes were warm and engaging, his manner friendly, but Cassandra didn't want any man to touch her, not that way. She went to the bar, and he followed.

"I'll buy you a drink," he offered cheerfully and beckoned to the bartender.

"No, thank you," Cassandra said, angling her body away. She didn't want to owe anything to any man. "Half a pint, please," Cassandra said to the bartender, then carried her beer to where Richie was standing, conscious of the blond man's gaze on her as she walked away. He kept staring, so Cassandra stood closer to Richie than she normally would, even laid her hand on his arm.

"Want to dance?" Richie asked, and she smiled and said yes, abandoning her beer on a nearby table and letting Richie lead her onto the dance floor. When she glanced at the bar, the blond man had turned his back. Cassandra relaxed and gave her full attention to her charming young partner and the music.

A little after midnight, Cassandra told Richie goodbye. "Got to leave?" he asked, interrupting his conversation about motorcycles. His companion, a purple-haired man in black leather, leaned against the bar and reached for his beer.

"It's been a long day," she explained, then drew Richie a little away from the listening man. "Richie," she began, wishing there was something she could say, something she could do. But she said only, "Go to the Greek Isles with Marina, Richie. Go soon. Not everyone has forever."

"Yeah," he said slowly, looking away. "I know."

But he didn't, not really. He probably never would. Cassandra leaned forward and kissed his cheek, surprising them both, and Richie took her hand in his. "Say hello to Duncan for me," she said with a bright smile, then squeezed his hand and let go.

Cassandra put on her coat and her gloves, then went down the stairs, out into the chill spring air, heading toward the bed-and-breakfast. Two blocks later, rapid footsteps sounded behind her, and she turned to see the blond man from the club.

"I hoped that was you!" he exclaimed, hurrying to reach her. "I just left the club, and when I saw you in the distance, I thought you looked familiar." He smiled again, friendly and helpful. "Looks like we're going the same direction," he said. "Can I walk you home?"

"No, thank you," she said, keeping her words polite, yet already walking.

He joined her, his hands tucked deep into his coat pockets. "Then I'll just stay with you until our paths diverge, and I shall take the one less traveled." He tossed his head to get his hair out of his eyes. "Do you like Robert Frost's poetry?"

"I'm not familiar with modern poets."

His eyes lit up. "Do you prefer the old ones? Byron? Keats?"

Cassandra hid a smile. They still seemed modern to her. "Euripides," she said. "And Ovid and Sappho."

"Did you study Greek and Latin in school?"

"A long time ago," she answered, truthfully enough, and turned the corner.

He went with her. "Looks like our roads haven't diverged yet," he said cheerily. "I'm Roger, by the way."

"Sandra," Cassandra told him, and they walked on for another few minutes, chatting of poetry and of school. After he had turned two more corners with her, Cassandra stopped. "Where do you live?" she asked, keeping her tone pleasant.

He looked around in confusion and then laughed. "I seem to have forgotten to take my own path; I was so enjoying the conversation with you. Is it much farther to your place?"

"Not far," Cassandra answered, but she didn't want him to know where she was staying. "Let's say goodnight now, Roger."

"Do we have to?" he said, tossing his head back again as a lock of hair covered his eyes. He stepped closer to her, smiling, an interesting and attentive man. "I can walk with you the rest of the way. It's no problem."

It was a problem for her. "Where do you live?" she repeated.

"Not far," he answered easily and pointed to his right. "Three blocks that way."

He was lying. She had seen it in the slight flicker of his eyes, the brief faltering of his smile, and she had heard it in his voice. His comfortable smile had returned now, warm and charming, but the lie remained.

Methos had been charming, too. He still was.

"Tell me," she said to Roger, her voice now soft and seductive, "do you do this often? Offer to walk women home?"

"Sometimes. It's not always easy to meet a nice girl, you know?" Roger said, almost plaintively. "A woman I can talk to, a woman who understands what I like. What I want." He stepped closer and added, "What I need." His hand came up to touch her hair, and Cassandra moved to the right, sidestepping his grasp. His eyes narrowed in irritation, though he kept the smile on his face as he moved around her. He leaned his left hand against the brick wall behind her, so that his arm blocked her in.

Cassandra kept most of her attention on Roger as she glanced about her, evaluating the site—concrete sidewalk, a narrow alley three paces to her right, yellow light from the streetlight across the road. The street was deserted, the doors of the stores locked, the windows shuttered. His right hand reached for her hair again; his fingers brushed against her breast as they glided through the strands. "You could give me what I need," he suggested, his voice gone husky with desire.

Cassandra stood completely still within the close confines of his arm, his body, and the wall. She could use the Voice and tell him to leave her alone. She'd done it before, many times.

But other women didn't have that option. Other women might be hurt by this man, might have already been hurt. She needed to know. "And what do you need, Roger?" she asked him, soft and slow, using his name and the form of the Voice he would respond to, adding a compelling rhythm under the words. "Tell me. Tell me everything."

The smile disappeared and the patina of charm cracked to reveal angry lust. "I need a woman who does what I tell her to. _She_ did what I told her, after a while, after I convinced her."

Cassandra looked up at him, her eyes wide in pretended fascination. "How did you convince her, Roger?"

"A couple of smacks, a little of what was good for her—all women are whores. They go their knees soon enough, begging."

"How many?" Cassandra asked.

"Twelve," he said proudly. "The third bitch told the coppers, and I did a year in jail, but I learned my lesson. Haven't been caught since." He added with grim satisfaction, "_She_ learned her lesson, too." He touched Cassandra's cheek, and she placed her hand over his, gently.

"The alley?" she suggested, letting her gloved fingers linger against his palm before she stepped away.

"You're already a whore," he said in disgust and excitement. "Like it dirty? Up against a wall?"

Cassandra gave him a smile that promised wicked delights then led the way into the shadows, behind a gray rubbish bin. He followed her, of course, a panting dog tethered by his lust. His hands went for her shoulders, then slid closer to her neck. "Kneel," she ordered, using the Voice of command, and his eyes went blank as his hands fell to his sides and his legs buckled underneath him. Cassandra moved to stand behind him, straddling his calves. Then she reached down, cradled his head in her hands, and snapped his neck.

Death was not instantaneous, of course. It never is. The brain remains full of blood, the lungs full of air, for a moment or two at least, until the broken flesh quivers and shudders and goes still.

Cassandra stepped over the dead body and went on her way. She took a shower to wash the lingering scent of cigarette smoke from her hair, then slept soundly all night long. Late the next morning, she sipped coffee on the sunny porch surrounded by flowers and read the morning post. "Convicted Rapist's Neck Snapped" read a small headline on the bottom of the fourth page.

"No more," she murmured. No more expecting the "system" to take care of men such as that one, no more waiting for other people to help her. No more champions, no more need. "Never again." Cassandra finished her coffee and went to pack her things for the train ride back to Scotland. She had a music class to teach tomorrow, and the girls needed to begin practicing their songs for the spring concert.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Monday morning, 7 April 1997<strong>_  
><em><strong>The MacLeod Farm<br>The Highlands of Scotland**_

"How was your trip to Brighton this weekend, Cass?" Alex asked, then grabbed her coffee cup and moved it just in time to escape four-month-old Sara's flailing clutches. Her more-experienced friend, Alex noted, had already set her cup in the middle of the kitchen table, far away from Colin's reach. "They're getting really long arms," Alex commented, bouncing Sara gently on her knee.

"And they'll get longer," Cass responded, doing the same with the baby in her lap. "And then they start to crawl. And then walk. And then run."

"And then drive," Alex added, laughing. "But not for a while. They haven't even started solids yet. We're going to do that next week, I think. It'll sure be nice for them to have another source of food other than me."

"Is the breastfeeding working well for you?" Cass asked. "I can tell Sara and Colin are happy with it."

"Oh, yes," Alex said and kissed the top of her daughter's head. "After those first two weeks, I haven't had any problems. It's just ... it's all I seem to do. At least we have Mrs. MacNabb to do the cooking and cleaning, and of course Connor and John help, too. And Nancy, the girl from the village, is living here now. She moved in last month, and she helps when she's not off at school." Alex sighed. "I don't know how women can do it alone."

"We're not supposed to," Cass answered briskly. "It takes a whole village to raise a child, and to keep a mother from going crazy."

"Or it takes a whole clan," Alex said. "And the MacLeods certainly have one of those." She reached for her coffee and took a welcome sip, holding her elbow up and off to one side to avoid Sara's quick grasp. Alex set the cup down—in the middle of the table—and asked her original question again. She was getting used to being continually interrupted. "How was Brighton?"

"Oh, fine," Cass said, nodding. "It was fine. Methos and I talked. Richie and I had dinner, then we went dancing."

"Dancing? That sounds like fun."

"Yes," Cass agreed, smiling. "It was. Richie's a nice young man."

Alex wanted to know more about the not-so-nice and not-so-young man Cass had talked to. "So, you and Methos ...?" Alex prodded.

Cassandra took a sip of her own coffee, then finally answered, "He said I wasn't 'just a slave' to him, that he actually had ... some feelings for me. I only wanted to kill him once or twice," Cass said lightly, trying to make a joke of it. "Afterward, I went running for a long time and pounded some rocks into sand."

"Good," Alex said approvingly. "Sounds like you're finding ways to express your anger, instead of holding it in all the time."

"Yes," Cass agreed, smiling again, a real smile this time. "I am."

* * *

><p><strong>JUDGEMENT DAY<strong>

_**Monday, 7 April 1997**_  
><em><strong>Paris, France<strong>_

MacLeod wasn't home when Methos called, so he had to leave a message on the answering machine. Actually, Methos had deliberately called in the morning, during MacLeod's usual running-time, so everything was going according to plan. "Hey, MacLeod," Methos started and then stood there, holding the telephone, trying to think of something witty to say. Nothing, nada, zilch. Oh, what the hell. "In the mood for Chinese take-out tonight? I'll bring the food—and the beer."

Methos was home when MacLeod called back two hours later, but Methos didn't pick up the phone. MacLeod's voice hadn't changed at all. "Chinese sounds good, but I'll get it," MacLeod said. "See you at the barge at seven." A smile crept into his words. "Don't forget the beer." A pause came, a rustle of clothing, while Methos stood in the center of the room, waiting, listening to the beating of his heart. "It'll be good to see you again," MacLeod finally said, then hung up the phone.

Methos dithered about for the rest of the day, trying to settle down to read, trying to work on his thesis, trying to watch TV. It was worse than going out on a first date, but at least he didn't have to worry about what to wear. He left his flat too early, then wandered back and forth on the quay until seven-thirteen. He didn't have to knock, of course. The buzz between immortals rang loud and clear. MacLeod was waiting for him on deck, dressed in jeans and a white wool sweater against the chill evening air.

They went into the barge and ate dinner, neither talking beyond inanities about chopsticks and soy sauce and the history of the mandolin and the lute. But Methos knew it was coming, and sure enough, after the last of the moo-shu pork had been eaten, it came.

"She said you broke her hands," MacLeod said, standing with his hands at his sides. No accusation, no anger, just honest uncertainty and confusion.

Methos knew why. MacLeod was asking for the truth, because now—five months after those heart-pounding, mind-numbing days of the Horsemen, after plenty of time to think and reflect—MacLeod wasn't sure who or what to believe anymore. Was Cassandra unstable enough to imagine things? Had Methos put on an act, making himself worse than he appeared, just to push MacLeod away and keep him safe? Had Methos lied? Had she? Who could MacLeod trust?

She said you broke her hands.

Methos turned to look out the porthole at the dark water below, but the window was a mirror now, giving back only a reflection of himself. The curve of the glass stretched his face thin at the edges, emphasized his shadowed eyes and lips pressed tight in pain. Methos wanted to change the past, but he couldn't change a thing. He could only change himself. His hands clenched tightly, with a crack and grind of bone, clenched and unclenched in time to the beating of his heart.

Sometimes Cassandra talked too much.

Either by cunning or by instinct, MacLeod had offered the choice Methos had dreaded most of all. Lie—and convince MacLeod that Cassandra wasn't really quite sane (and she wasn't), and that it hadn't been that bad (and parts of it hadn't), and that Methos had done everything he could to save MacLeod (and Methos had)—and then go back to the easy companionship of a year ago.

Tell the truth, and risk losing it all—or maybe gain much more.

Methos wanted more. "Yes," Methos admitted, as he had said "Yes" to MacLeod once before. "Whatever she tells you I did," Methos said quickly, turning round to face MacLeod, to face what he had done, "whatever she tells you, the answer is 'yes.' If not to her, then to someone else."

MacLeod's eyes were also shadowed, dark with knowledge and pain, and his lips had tightened, too. But he nodded slowly, saying "Yes" once more, accepting it all and dismissing it all, accepting Methos for what he was, even knowing what he had been.

Methos carefully eased out the air he'd been holding tight inside, knowing with joy and relief that he wouldn't have to hide anymore, that the easy companionship might deepen into sharing and trust. Sometimes, honesty really was the best policy. But not often.

MacLeod tossed Methos a beer. "Good to see you again, Methos," MacLeod said, smiling. "I've missed having you around."

Methos opened the beer and lay back on the couch. "It's good to be back." Oh, and it was.

* * *

><p><strong>OBSESSION<strong>

_**Wednesday afternoon, 9 April 1997**_  
><em><strong>Fort William, Scotland<strong>_

"How did the meeting with Methos go, Cassandra?" Jennifer asked at their regular Wednesday appointment, a little after lunch. Jennifer deliberately scheduled these sessions for early afternoon, because she couldn't easily face another patient or her family after listening to Cassandra's tales. After Cassandra left, Jennifer would go for a brisk walk, or if (as was usual) the session had been extremely disturbing, Jennifer would go home and scrub the bathtub and the toilets in a cleaning frenzy which she recognized as both symbolic and real. Then she would have a long bubble bath, a nap, and then a cup of tea, so she was able to be civil to her husband and daughters when they got home. Or at least, she tried.

It looked like Jennifer's bathtub was going to get cleaned again today. Cassandra was all in gray and black, no earrings or even makeup, a bad sign. At least her hair was neatly brushed and clean. Jennifer sighed silently and forced herself to repeat the question, because Cassandra obviously hadn't been listening the first time. "How did the meeting go?"

Cassandra looked up from the spider-plant in surprise. "Oh, fine," she said, nodding, shredding the dead leaves of the much-abused plant with her nails. "Fine. We talked. I broke my fingers; he broke his. He told me he'd cared about me a little; I told him I'd cared about him a lot. I cried; he apologized. We had lunch and talked about beer. Then I went running and beat a rock into sand. It was fine."

Jennifer made a mental note to add pathological denial to Cassandra's list of defense mechanisms, right after lying, excusing, justifying, and ignoring. Cassandra was going to need some prodding to get to the bottom of this.

During the next hour, they talked about fear and hate and rage, about adoration and obedience and love. "At first, I thought I'd handled it, and handled him," Cassandra said. "But these last few days, I've started wondering if he didn't handle me. He's witty, he's charming, he's fun ... and he's a liar, and a murderer, and he hurt me so badly that I truly wanted to die," Cassandra said in bewilderment, reaching for another tissue to wipe away her tears. "While I was eating lunch with him, I was actually starting to like him, to forget, and then I looked at his hands, and I remembered. I said to myself, 'This man murdered your father.'

"Do you know," Cassandra began, switching topics and switching to a false cheerful chattiness, as if she were talking of the weather or of a cookie recipe, "that's the last thing I remember of my mortal life? Kronos stabbed me, and as I was falling, I saw Methos stab my father. We were both lying on the ground, dying, and my father's blood was soaking into the sand, making it dark, like after a rain, but darker. Some of his blood had spurted onto my cheek." The cheerfulness had leached away, gone into a darkness darker than blood. "I was cold all over, except where his blood was warm. It was dripping into my mouth. I can still remember the taste of my father's blood, even though I can't remember his face anymore. He was speaking, but I couldn't hear the words. I couldn't hear anything." Cassandra stared off into nothing, lost in her memory again. "I've always wondered what my father wanted to tell me."

Jennifer waited for Cassandra to wipe away the new tears, then waited a few moments more before she asked, "What else did you remember about Methos in the restaurant, Cassandra?"

Cassandra started shredding the tissue. "Oh, just that he raped and tortured and enslaved me. That he killed everyone I loved, and thousands of others, besides." The tissue was a small pile of white fluff on the arm of the chair before Cassandra spoke again. "Being with him was like ... going down a slide, and going faster and faster and enjoying it, and then—Wham!—smashing into a steel pole right at the bottom, breaking your bones and crushing your heart."

Jennifer winced at the image, knowing that for Cassandra, the words had sometimes literally been true. But the emotions were common enough. Many abusers could be very charming, when they wanted to be, and a lot of women fell for that charm again and again and again, certain—or hoping—that this time, the man really had changed. Usually, the man hadn't, and the woman ended up broken or crushed again.

Maybe Methos was one of the few who had changed; after all, it had been over three thousand years (Three thousand years! Jennifer thought again in disbelief and amazement, as she had thought many times these last few months), but Cassandra's reluctance to trust was healthier—and safer—than the blind faith some women showed, the blind faith Jennifer herself had shown, nearly thirty years ago. "Last week, we talked about the emotions that might be stirred up when you saw him," Jennifer reminded her. "This was a big step for you, Cassandra. It took a lot of courage to confront him."

Cassandra huddled into the chair, her arms wrapped around her knees, ignoring—or just not responding to—that affirmation. "I don't think I should see him again," Cassandra said, shaking her head. "I don't hate him, not anymore; he's not worth my time. But I don't ever want to like him."

"Why not?"

"Because, if I start to like him, it means I've forgiven him. And if I forgive him, it means I've forgotten what he did to my family. It means I've betrayed them and abandoned them all over again."

Here we go, thought Jennifer, survivor's guilt time. Immortals had to have a lot of that. "Cassandra, it's not your fault that you gave in to Methos back then, that you pushed what he had done out of your mind. It's a survival mechanism. In that kind of situation, everyone does it."

Cassandra shot to her feet and started pacing, kicking at the bottom of the chair. "He came after my tribe because of me. They all died because of me. And yes, I know they'd all be long dead now no matter what, and yes, I know the Horsemen would have killed my people eventually anyway, but—"

"Is that really what you don't want to forgive him for?" Jennifer broke in. "Your family?" Cassandra stood there, her mouth open, thinking, and Jennifer asked, "What are you really angry about, Cassandra? Methos handing you over to Kronos?"

"No," Cassandra denied, but it was a rational response this time. "I know why he did that. That decision saved my life. And I've had to make that kind of choice myself, sometimes." She sank down to sit on the arm of the chair and stared at the floor. "And they weren't immortal." She lifted her head, her eyes bright with tears. "Have you read _Sophie's Choice_?"

"Yes," Jennifer said, remembering the book she'd read over ten years ago, about a woman in a World War II concentration camp. "Choose," a Nazi guard had ordered. "Choose one child to live, or they both die." And Sophie had sacrificed her daughter so that her son might live. Sophie had been able to do nothing, only stand by and listen to her daughter's terrified screams of "Mother!" as the Nazi had dragged the girl away.

Jennifer had cried when she had read that part, then gone into her children's bedroom to look on her own two young daughters, Dorcas and Miriam, asleep at home in a peaceful land. Jennifer couldn't imagine making that choice. Cassandra didn't have to imagine. She knew.

"A hard world makes for hard choices," Cassandra said briefly. "I haven't cared for a child in over a thousand years." She stood up again, arms crossed across her body, as usual, a defiant, angry stance. "The Horsemen weren't that special, or that unusual. They still aren't. Slaughtering, burning, raping, stealing—it happens all the time. What Methos did to my tribe wasn't personal; it was just part of his job description. But what he did to me later ..." She shook her head slowly, as if it hurt to move, and the anger disappeared, revealing bewilderment and pain. "He didn't have to make me think he cared. He didn't have to lie to me that way. He didn't—"

"He didn't have to make you love him," Jennifer supplied gently.

"No," Cassandra agreed, crying now, tears running silently down her cheeks. "But he did. So, I can never forgive him, because if I forgive him, I'm afraid I might start to love him again." She bit down on her lower lip, cutting deep, then licked her blood away before she whispered, "And I'm even more afraid that I still love him, even now."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Continued in "The Messenger"<em>**


	3. The Messenger

_Hope Triumphant I: Healer (part 3)  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>THE MESSENGER<strong>

_**Friday, 23 May 1997**_ _**  
>Rousby Hall Girls' School, Scotland<strong>_

Methos arrived in Cassandra's classroom just as the policeman was leaving. "Sorry to bother you, Miss," the balding man was saying as he snapped shut his notebook. "I think we'll be closing the investigation on this one. It's been over six weeks now, and you were our last lead."

"Not at all," she replied pleasantly. The soft gray of her loose cashmere gown flowed about her, hinting at the curves underneath, leaving a great deal to the imagination, so Methos leaned against the wall and imagined. She ignored him and smiled at the policemen, a simple charming smile, not at all sexual. At least her hair wasn't pulled into a tight bun; she had left that long and free. "I'm sorry you had to come all the way up here from Brighton for nothing," Cassandra said to the policeman.

The policeman nodded and slipped his notebook in the pocket of his voluminous raincoat. Methos made himself inconspicuous in the corner near the door as the man lumbered from the room. Methos and Cassandra stared at each other until the heavy footsteps faded away, then Methos inquired, "Trouble?"

"No," she answered, walking between the harps to her desk at the front of the classroom. "Just a man with a broken neck." She picked up a few pencils and dropped them into a coffee cup, one by one, smiling to herself. "No trouble at all."

Methos didn't like that smile. It reminded him of Kronos. Cassandra had obviously come up with new definitions of "fun" that night in Brighton. "Any particular reason you killed him?"

"Do I need one?"

"It helps," he answered evenly. If she was slaughtering people out of frustrated rage over the Horsemen, he'd have to stop her somehow, lock her up somewhere until she came to her senses, maybe. She'd hate that, but he didn't have time for anything more, not right now. At least he'd finally handed in his thesis, and he didn't have that hanging over his head anymore.

Cassandra dropped the flippancy. "He was a serial rapist, and he came after me. I made sure he wouldn't go after anyone anymore."

Methos wanted to know more. "Was it fun?"

"Fun?" she repeated blankly. "Oh, of course. You mean the killing." Her gaze flicked over him once, coldly. "You would."

Methos didn't respond to that taunt, just waited with a steady, patient stare.

She stared back but finally answered, still cold. "No, it wasn't fun. I don't enjoy killing. It was like stepping on a cockroach—unpleasant, but necessary."

Methos nodded slowly, relieved by her answer—even if a little disconcerted by her action—and dismissed the matter from his mind. Cassandra seated herself regally in the chair behind her desk. "What do you want, Methos?"

He sat on the edge of one of the students' desks, swinging his right foot back and forth, but before he could speak, a bevy of girls came into the room. Methos stood, smiling and giving a slight bow, and they started giggling. All of them were old enough to be interested, and the oldest was old enough to be interesting, maybe seventeen or so. Methos smiled again, and she tossed back her long, black hair and smiled, too.

"We'll go elsewhere to talk," Cassandra said briskly and went to the door. "Girls, don't forget to practice the new piece for the spring concert," she said, and they giggled some more and watched him with bright, curious eyes.

"You're too old for them," she told him as they walked through the hallway and out the aged wooden door.

"I'm too old for everybody," Methos answered, going lightly down the worn stone steps.

"Not for me."

Methos walked beside her—not too close—and thought about that as they followed the curving brick walkway between the enormous oak trees, their new leaves still tinged with spring-time red. Cassandra was only three-fifths his age, but after the first two thousand years or so, who counted? And he didn't have to pretend with her; she'd seen him at his worst.

Cassandra unlocked the door to a small flat at the end of one of the stone-walled dormitories. "Tea?" she asked, and Methos nodded. They'd need more than a spoonful of sugar to make this go down. She set the kettle on the stovetop in the kitchenette, then went toward the bedroom. "I'll be right out," she called and shut the door behind her.

Methos walked around the sparsely furnished flat, continuing his evaluation of it, both as a possible combat location and as Cassandra's home. The kitchenette was an obvious modern addition, a stand-alone cabinet unit that fit neatly against one wall. A tiny sink was set above the small refrigerator, a microwave above the two-burner stove. The dining area consisted of a round table and two stools in the corner. All was neat and tidy, almost obsessively so. A black vase held a budding branch in the center of the table, a Zen-simple statement of spring. No bunches of flowers for her.

Methos wandered past the rocking chair into the living area, then studied the only picture in the place: an oil painting of the sun hovering over a grassy plain. The color red predominated, cracks of coming dawn. Or maybe a sunset. A product of one of Cassandra's hobbies? The painting wasn't signed, but somehow it seemed like her.

The low table below the set of triple windows on the other wall was free of magazines or clutter; only a tall, green candle in a birch-tree candleholder stood unadorned. The room was empty, too: no TV, no radio, no computer, not even a clock—just a harp in the corner and two bookshelves on either side of the small fireplace. Methos went to examine her books. Science-fiction, music history, music theory, musical scores, math and science books, and—surprise, surprise—romance novels, the passion-pulp kind with flowing tresses, heaving bosoms, and well-defined muscles galore. But right below them was a different kind of reading: "_Battered Wives_"; "_Trauma and Recovery_"; "_Boiling Point: the High Cost of Unhealthy Anger_"; "_Rape, Incest, and Sexual Harassment_" ... cheery stuff. "_Next Time, She'll Be Dead_" lay flat on the shelf, on obvious favorite.

Methos picked up a paperback entitled "_Men who hate women & the women who love them_" and flipped through the book. Red ink marked almost every page: underlinings, exclamation points, question marks, boxes around sentences, and doodlings in the margins—angular, repetitive lines.

He stopped at the end of a chapter, where a clay pot had been elaborately drawn on the blank part of the page, then filled in, marked with hatches and shadings, dots and lines and swirls. The entire page was covered with intertwining pen marks, surrounding the text. Methos read the last paragraph: "All of the controlling behaviors the misogynist uses against his partner come from his profound fear of abandonment. It is a fear that must be defended against at all costs. In an effort to quell his anxiety, he tries to gain control over his partner by destroying her self-confidence, so that she can never leave him and he will be safe."

Cassandra emerged, dressed in black jeans and a beige cotton sweater, her long hair tied back in a tight braid. Not quite as controlled as a bun, but still forbiddingly severe. "Find what you're looking for?" she asked, glancing at the book in his hands.

"Have you?" Methos countered.

"I'm beginning to."

Methos put the book away and picked up another, and she made no protest. She wanted him to see these, Methos realized, had brought him here and deliberately left him alone. This book was also heavily marked, and some of the pages were pockmarked by red dots and gouges, as if a pen had been jabbed into the paper over and over again. Methos stopped at a book-marked page illustrated with an elaborate M. The letter had been drawn as a pair of jagged-topped towers on a plain. Lightning bolts sprawled over the picture, forming the outline of a hand, reaching up from the tower and stretching across the sky. A lone horseman galloped across the plain, inescapably pursued by a finger of lightning from above—the hand of God reaching for an Adam who didn't want to be found.

The text on that page read:

_The bond of interdependence between captive and captor called the Stockholm Syndrome develops "when someone threatens your life, deliberates, and doesn't kill you." (Symonds, 1980) The relief arising from the removal of the threat of death generates intense feelings of gratitude as well as fear, which combine to make captives reluctant to display negative feelings toward the terrorist. This is pathological transference, a kind of "conversion." Recognition that the terrorist/abuser has the power of life and death over them, combined with gratitude that he has let them live, causes a unique change in perspective—the hostage/abuse victim comes to see the captor/abuser as a "good guy," even a savior. "The victim's need to survive is stronger than his impulse to hate the person who has created his dilemma." (Strentz, 1980)_

Cassandra had quoted him in the margin: "You forgot what I was." She had made him forget, too, for a little while. But not enough. Methos kept reading out of a sick fascination, even though he'd seen all this before.

_Overwhelmingly grateful to terrorists for giving them life, hostages focus on their perceptions of their captors' kindness, not their brutality. Similarly, battered women convince themselves that the abuser is a good man whose violence stems from problems they can help him solve._

And here she had quoted from a song: "Stand by your man."

_Stockholm Syndrome develops when an individual is subjected to four conditions (Graham, et al., 1988)_

_1. A person is held captive and cannot escape, so her or his life depends on the captor._

_2. The captive is isolated from outsiders so that the only other perspective available to her or him is that of the captor._

_3. The captor threatens to kill the victim and is perceived as having the capability to do so._

_4. The threatening person is perceived as showing some degree of kindness to the victim being threatened. Kindness is the cornerstone of the Stockholm Syndrome. Stockholm Syndrome will not develop unless the captor exhibits some kindness towards the victim. If the captor/batterer is purely evil, the victim responds with hatred. But if the captor/batterer shows some kindness, in the midst of terror the victim submerges the hatred s/he feels in response to the terror, and concentrates on his/her captor's good side in order to protect him/herself._

Cassandra had checked off each condition with large, bold marks. In number three she had crossed out the words "is perceived as having the capability to so do" and quoted him again: "I will kill you as many times as it takes to tame you." In a neatly drawn box in block printed letters was written, "Never Again."

Never again. Not for her, not for him. Methos shut the book and laid it on the bookshelf, then moved on. The other bookshelf held reference books and art supplies, some magazines, a wicker basket filled with river-smoothed stones. "Did you get the book I sent?" he asked, fearing it had gone astray. He could never replace that volume, signed by the author over fifty years ago. Methos had added his own inscription, for Cassandra and for himself: "All changed, changed utterly." Maybe someday, she'd believe it.

"It's by my bed," she told him, pausing in her domestic activities to answer and to meet his eyes. "I find Yeats reads best in the morning."

"And I like to read him at night," Methos answered. But then, she had always been a morning person, arising before the desert dawn scorched the sands, fetching water in the darkness and beginning preparations for the morning meal, then coming back to his bed when he awoke.

Cassandra had disappeared into her bedroom again. She came back and set a large, flat package on the arm of the couch. "I was going to mail this to you, in return."

"Do I open it now?" he asked, for Cassandra had busied herself again in the making of tea. Damn awkward, this giving of presents. He hadn't planned on sending her the book of poetry, but four weeks ago, on the morning after his friend Byron had died, Methos had impulsively wrapped the book and sent it away, knowing Cassandra at least would appreciate it, would understand.

"Yes," she said, making herself be still once more, but not coming any closer. "Open it."

Methos undid the tape, cursing the thoroughness of the wrapping, wondering if he should take his dagger to the thing. Inside the box was a picture, framed in oak and painted on vellum, the real thing, fine white lambskin carefully stretched and pulled thin. Crimsons and brilliant yellows intertwined in endless knots; exquisitely detailed pictures of forest green and shining blue lay in each corner. In the center was a poem, gold leaf glimmering among black inked letters, all done in the old Celtic style from a thousand years ago and more. "A Man Young and Old," the title read, and this time the M was a pair of mountains, and the sky was clear blue.

One of his wives had been an illuminator, drawing pictures and elaborate letters in holy scriptures and breviaries. They'd lived together in Ireland in a monastery, back before the Celtic Church had followed the way of Rome and enforced celibacy for its religious. She'd spent her life decorating the gospels, making things of beauty—loving him. Sorcha, her name had been; Methos was almost sure of it. Yes, Sorcha. Dark hair, dark eyes.

Or had they been blue?

No matter now. Methos cleared his throat. "You would pick that poem."

"You picked it," Cassandra said, for it was the one he had quoted to her last month.

Yes. He had. Or maybe it had picked him, a travel-wearied aged man, enduring what life God gave and asking no longer span. "Were you in Ireland?" he asked, carefully laying the picture back in its box.

"For a century or two," she answered, taking out a potholder. "I got there a little before the Romans abandoned Britain."

"Seems we just missed each other."

"Did we?" she asked, sharp and pointed, the truce flag put away with the gift.

Methos wandered over to look at the harp, then straightened abruptly. An Immortal was getting very near. Cassandra looked up from pouring boiling water into the teapot but made no attempt to reach for a weapon. "This school is on Holy Ground," she said. "It used to be the Abbey of St. Anne."

Methos nodded—he had seen the sign as he drove onto the campus—but he moved closer to the windows, just in case.

Cassandra didn't wait for a knock, but opened the door, standing off to one side. The visitor stopped in the doorway, ignoring Cassandra completely and staring only at Methos.

Methos stared back. The newcomer was about his height, a bit more in weight, gray eyes, fair skin, sandy-brown hair cut short. He wore a beige trenchcoat over blue jeans and a green shirt, and white sneakers on his feet. Methos swore silently. He hadn't wanted to deal with this man today.

Cassandra played her part as gracious hostess, all sweet helpfulness. "Connor, may I present a friend of Duncan's." At Connor's swift glance, she nodded. "That's Methos."

Methos immediately stepped forward, spreading both hands slightly, palms out, a gesture of peace, but the gray eyes boring into him had already shifted to the color and hardness of granite. Damn. Prudence dictated leaving immediately and calling Cassandra later, but Methos needed all the help he could get. So, how to get help from Connor MacLeod?

Connor slowly came all the way into the room, not walking, but prowling. Cassandra shut the door for him. Methos adopted his most innocuous pose, not sure what Connor had been told, or who had told him. Connor stopped about two paces away, looking Methos up and down, studying him—judging him. Methos looked toward the floor. He had no reason to compete for the alpha male position.

"What's he doing here?" Connor asked Cassandra, still keeping his attention on Methos. Connor's accent was peculiar, with a menacing growl designed to send shivers down men's spines. Women's spines, too, no doubt, but for different reasons. Methos's spine was unaffected, and he slouched a little bit more.

"He hasn't told me yet," Cassandra said.

Connor prowled some more, trying to get behind him. Methos turned to prevent that, but kept his eyes down and his hands loose. "How'd he find you?" Connor asked, going the other direction. Methos turned, too.

"Probably the same way I found him last month," she answered, getting out another cup and spoon.

Probably, Methos thought. Detectives had their uses. But Joe Dawson was the one who had urged Methos to come now. "She's a witch, right?" Joe had said yesterday. "She has visions and dreams. Maybe Mac went to her for advice. I know you two don't get along, Methos, but we have to find MacLeod. And even if he didn't go to see her, maybe he's in Scotland. Or maybe she can help somehow."

So Methos had made the trek to Scotland, and now MacLeod's witch-lover and his teacher-kinsman were discussing him as if he weren't even there. Methos knew this technique of intimidation. Time to assert himself, at least a little. He finally met the elder MacLeod's eyes and commented mildly, "I'm not a potted plant, you know. I can speak for myself."

Connor smiled, a thin stretching of the lips, a narrowing of the eyes. "But you don't," he said with knowing contempt. "You prefer to stand by and do nothing." The smile disappeared, and the contempt deepened to disgust. "Except watch." Cassandra favored Methos with a mocking, malicious smile as she set the tea tray on the low table in front of the windows. Connor's eyes glittered with hungry speculation, and he offered generously, with more than a touch of enthusiasm, "Want me to kill him, Cassandra?"

"Maybe later," Cassandra demurred and pulled the table away from the wall, placing it between the two men. "First, let's find out why he's here."

So, maybe this time curiosity had saved the cat, Methos thought. Good thing he had more than nine lives. Cassandra seated herself in the center of the couch, claiming it like a throne, and Connor took the position to her left, a knight protecting his queen. He was also standing directly in front of the rocking chair. Methos was left either to stand or to squat on the floor. He dragged over one of the stools from the eating area. No one spoke while Cassandra and Methos poured and sugared and stirred. Connor stood and kept vigil.

Cassandra didn't drink, either, but set down her spoon and repeated her original demand. "What do you want?"

Methos hid his smile behind his tea cup. She was much like a Klingon woman from that Star Trek television show—direct and to the point. Probably best, considering. Methos kept his tone casual. "I was wondering if either of you had seen Duncan this week." It felt odd to call him by his first name, but with Connor standing right there, using MacLeod would have been too confusing. And Methos had sometimes thought of him as Duncan of late.

"Why?" Connor demanded. "What's happened?"

Another forthright individual. Methos would try to be the same. He met Connor's gaze and said bluntly, "Richie's dead."

Cassandra blinked and stared at her lap, shaking her head and murmuring, "So soon."

Connor blinked, too, but he didn't look away, and his eyes got even colder. "When?"

Methos had to think about it. The last few days had been kind of a blur. "Monday night. Four days ago."

"You think Duncan's here in the Highlands hunting the killer?" Connor asked.

"Not exactly, no," Methos murmured and sipped his tea, fortifying himself for the coming storm. He put the cup down and stood. Show time. "Duncan is the killer."

Cassandra whimpered in soft protest, then went to look out the middle of the three windows, her back to both men. Connor stayed where he was, shaking his head, then snapped, "Explain that."

"Duncan had been having ... nightmares, visions," Methos answered. "He thought Richie was an enemy."

Cassandra turned from the window. "What kind of visions?"

"Red glowing fog, people back from the dead, a demon out to destroy the world."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Connor snarled.

"Hey, I wasn't the one who thought this up," Methos said, too tired to hide all of his irritation. "That's what he said. Fog, zombies, a demon named Ahriman—and an Avatar to save the world."

Cassandra was nodding in recognition, but Connor only looked more annoyed. "How long had these visions been happening?" he demanded.

"Two days maybe, no more. Didn't seem that serious. At first, I thought it might be echoes from a bad quickening."

"Or the Dark Quickening?" Connor suggested grimly.

Methos shook his head as he sat back down. "No. He hadn't changed, not that way. Richie said an Immortal named Garrick sent Duncan bad dreams a few years ago. We thought it might be something like that." He glanced at Cassandra at exactly the wrong time.

"Why are you looking at me?" she bristled. "You think I would send Duncan nightmares?"

Methos exhaled softly through half a smile. Joe had been the one to suggest it, but Richie had immediately said no. "Mac and Cassandra are friends," Richie had protested. "They were both at Connor's place over Christmas." Methos had supported Richie, and Joe had subsided with dark looks and darker mutterings about a witch who never forgot.

"And I'm not sending any dreams to you, either," Cassandra told Methos hotly.

She didn't need to. He had enough of his own.

"Why didn't anyone tell me about these visions?" Connor broke in.

Methos spread his hands out in a gesture of helpless protest. "That was Duncan's decision, not mine. I guess he didn't want you—"

Methos stopped as Connor growled low in his throat and stepped forward, deadly menace and deadlier intent in every line of his body, his eyes darkened to gunmetal gray. This time Methos did feel a shiver go down his spine, a mixture of alertness and surprise. He hadn't been trying to provoke a reaction from either of them, and now Connor and Cassandra were both angry with him. Damn.

"Duncan has his pride," Cassandra said to Connor, stepping between the two men, her irritation apparently gone. "You know he tries to protect you—and your family." Connor still looked mutinous, and Cassandra added pointedly, "Did you ask him for help with Kane?"

Connor's growling menace subsided, much to Methos's relief. "Is your computer on-line?" Connor asked Cassandra, and at her nod he turned to Methos and ordered, "Don't leave." Connor went into Cassandra's bedroom and shut the door with a decided thud.

"Charming fellow," Methos commented, amused to see that the "take control and give orders in an emergency" response was common to both MacLeods. He wondered how it worked when Connor and Duncan were together.

"Sometimes," Cassandra said as she resumed her seat and picked up her tea. "But he's always trustworthy."

Unlike himself. Methos didn't need to hear her say it. "Found yourself another champion already, Cassandra?"

"I don't need a champion," she told him coolly. "Connor's a friend."

Something more than a friend, probably. They communicated too well, and Connor was too comfortable in Cassandra's home to be just "friends." Old lovers, probably, but certainly not now. The Watcher files said Connor was married to a mortal, and Methos knew the MacLeod men didn't cheat. Although, why had Connor stopped by on a Friday afternoon?

"You weren't surprised about Richie," Methos said, claiming the now-unguarded rocking chair.

"How many Immortals reach one hundred?"

Damn few, and fewer still every century. The only sword most of the new ones had ever practiced with was a plastic light-saber. But there was more to it than that. Cassandra knew something. Joe had been right; demons and witches belonged together. "You've heard about Ahriman."

Cassandra added more sugar, stirred slowly. "I've studied many religions."

"And?" Methos prompted.

"Yes," Connor chimed in from the bedroom doorway. "And?"

"It's a legend like most other legends," she said then waited for him to sit on the arm of the couch before she continued. "A champion must defeat a great evil to save the world, single combat to the death. Perseus and Medusa. St. George and the Dragon. Luke Skywalker and the Empire."

"Those are myths, stories," Connor said dismissively.

"Duncan said the same thing about you when he was thirteen," Cassandra told him. "Your clan told stories about me, and," she added with sweet sarcasm, "we are in the presence of a living legend even now." Methos gave a modest smile as Cassandra mocked him with her eyes and Connor examined him as if he were some peculiarly loathsome slime-devil. "Some stories are true," she finished.

Connor opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again and turned to Methos. "Where have you looked for Duncan?"

"Around Paris. I thought he might go to his barge, or maybe Darius's church or a few other places I know. The Watchers have also been alerted; they're looking for him all over the world. There's no telling where he might go. Or do," he added, and the other two looked as grim as he felt. "Oh, and ... he doesn't have his sword."

"What?" Connor exclaimed, with a hell of a lot more shock than he'd shown for Richie's death. Of course, hearing about dead immortals wasn't exactly unexpected.

"Duncan left it," Methos explained. "Next to Richie's body."

Connor shot to his feet and began pacing in front of the windows, and Cassandra sighed before she asked, "What about the arrangements?"

"The funeral was yesterday," Methos told her. Joe and he had been the only ones there.

"Has anyone told Marina?" she asked, and when Methos looked at her in confusion, she explained, "Richie's girlfriend in the south of France."

It was Methos's turn to sigh. "I didn't know."

"I'll go and tell her," Cassandra volunteered, and Methos nodded in gratitude. He hated doing that.

Connor had apparently had enough pacing. He came back over to them but didn't sit down. "We need to find Duncan."

"Maybe he needs to be by himself," Cassandra suggested, but Connor shook his head.

"No. He needs help. I just sent an e-mail to my detective agency, and I know some places here in Scotland he might have gone. There's a list of three next to your computer, on top of the book Alex asked me to drop off."

So that was why Connor had stopped by, Methos thought. All above board, all done with the mortal wife's permission and knowledge. Very honorable, this MacLeod. Just like the other one. And Connor had jumped right in and offered to help find Duncan; Methos hadn't had to do anything at all. No surprise there—all for one and one for all, and all of that sort of thing.

"I'll go look for Duncan at the sites," Cassandra agreed.

"And I'll visit the others. Methos?" Connor asked, still in the command mode, all differences between them temporarily put aside in this common cause.

"I'm going to Turkey. I know of a cave there that might have some information."

Connor gave a single nod and left, the door slamming behind him, and Methos and Cassandra each leaned back with a sigh. "Youngsters have so much energy," Methos commented, but Cassandra didn't respond to the quip.

"Did Duncan realize what he'd done?" Cassandra asked, not looking at him. "Afterwards?"

"Yeah," Methos muttered, then shared with her something he would never tell Connor. "He asked me to take his head."

"Yes," she said nodding. "He would have. To kill a son ..." She slid to the floor and knelt back on her heels, then set all the cups neatly on the tea tray, arranged the spoons just so. She stayed there, her hands folded in her lap, then pinned him with the unnerving stare of a cat intent on the kill. "Which is worse, Methos? To pray for your son's death, or to kill your son unwittingly?"

The quick denial came to mind, the sharp and pointed "How would I know?" But he did know. Kronos and Silas had both been his students, both his sons in a way, and there had been others throughout the years. To want that death, to have love turn to hate, to know the shame of failing as a parent, to wonder if there wasn't something more you should have done, or might still do ...

"If it's a mistake, it hurts more when they die," Methos admitted honestly, hoping to show her how much he had changed. "But you can forgive yourself, in time. The guilt of wanting them dead—that stays forever."

Cassandra blinked and looked away, her green eyes seeming almost gray, they had gone so flat and dead inside.

Ah. No wonder she had asked. "Have you seen Roland lately, Cassandra?" Methos asked, wondering if that damage was reparable, if maybe he could help one more person he had hurt. All the mortals were long-dead, and his brothers were dead, but as long as a person survived, there was hope.

She shook her head slowly, hopelessly. "Duncan took Roland's head almost a year ago, in June."

Methos got off the rocking chair and knelt on the floor, joining her in a formal ceremony of pain. "I didn't know," he said. After "Adam Pierson" had gone AWOL from the Watchers last May, they had immediately terminated his computer access, and Methos has decided it was safer to avoid them completely while they were still on the lookout for him. So, he'd gone to Tibet for the summer, then wandered back to Seacouver to spend a few relaxing weeks with MacLeod, hiking in the mountains, watching sports, drinking beer at Joe's. And then Kronos had shown up, and all hell had broken loose. Methos had been busy since then, and he hadn't bothered to keep track of MacLeod's kills; there were so many.

"I asked Duncan to do it for me," Cassandra said softly, staring at her folded hands. "Begged him to. I couldn't—"

"I know," Methos told her, and he did, none better. He could never bring himself to kill Kronos, either. "Why did you want Roland dead?"

She took her time about answering, rearranged the spoons on the tray yet again. "He was using the Voice to hurt people, a lot of people. He had to be stopped, and I—" She bit down into her lower lip, licked away the blood that welled forth. Cassandra set her hands in her lap again, her fingers loosely intertwined to make a cage between her palms. "I could do nothing."

Methos knew how that felt, too. "How old was Roland when you adopted him, Cassandra?" Methos asked gently.

"About five, I think. I bought him from a slave-trader."

Methos nodded, then decided to share with her something he had never told anyone before. "Kronos was about that age when I found him."

Cassandra lifted her head lifted slowly, an uncoiling of surprise. "I never knew." She looked at him curiously, as if she had never seen him before. "So there was love between the two of you."

"Yes," Methos answered, but the word came strangled, and he cursed his voice for failing him. "The man who owned Kronos was abusive. I killed him to protect the boy, then took him as my son." And Kronos had called him "Abum," Father, until Kronos had grown and become an Immortal. Then Methos had named him Brother, and Kronos had called him the same. "Brothers," they had sworn to each other, "in arms, in immortality, and in blood. For eternity." For life.

Until Death did them part.

"We were too late, you know," she told him, and her gentleness matched his own. "Those first few years are so important, and the damage had already been done."

"Not that much," he protested.

"Maybe not," she admitted. "But the flaws were there. Oh, maybe they could have stayed sane during a mortal lifetime—though Roland didn't."

"Kronos did." Those first few hundred years, Methos and Kronos had been happy together, long years of traveling and trading, laughing and loving, raising children, farming the land. Then the raiders had come, slaughtering the townspeople and burning the city, enslaving Kronos's family and leaving him to die in the flames. Kronos had sworn to take revenge, and he'd never stopped taking, not for over three thousand years. The hate had already been in him, and when it had erupted, Methos hadn't been able to stop it.

But that wasn't quite true, was it? He hadn't even tried. And then he had entombed Kronos alive and left him alone in the dark for a thousand years. No wonder Kronos had gone mad. One of a thousand regrets, and there was nothing Methos could do.

"We're like diamonds," Cassandra was saying. "Immense pressure forms us, makes us hard. But over the years, under the strain of fighting and killing, of watching everyone die and everything change, the flaws we have can grow and spread. If they're big enough, we shatter."

"Not me."

"No," she agreed. "You're not so much a diamond; you're plastic. You bend, you grow, you change. As did Ramirez. As do I." Methos raised an inquiring eyebrow at that, and Cassandra tilted her head in acknowledgment and admitted, "Well, most of the time, anyway. I haven't been very bendable lately. But Kronos didn't change. And the MacLeods don't. They cling to what they know, and they fight to keep it."

"Hold Fast," Methos said, quoting the motto of the Clan MacLeod, thinking of those two rock-stubborn antique dealers who never forgot and seldom forgave.

"Hold fast," she repeated, then shook her head. "They're going to have to grow up."

Or die. Methos knew that, too. Survival of the fittest. Adapt, evolve, survive.

"Did you have a happy childhood, Methos?" she asked, now as bright-eyed and curious as that bevy of girls.

He pushed back from the table and sat in the rocking chair again. "I don't remember."

"Do you want to?" she offered, looking up at him from the floor, kneeling at his feet as she used to, but of her own choice, not his. "I could use the Voice to open your memories."

"I'm immune to the Voice."

Her amused smile only augmented the glimmer of power in her eyes. "No one is immune to the Voice. You can resist it. You can also submit to it."

And also submit to her. No, thank you! "Nah, I don't think so."

"Later, perhaps."

"Perhaps," Methos repeated, but the probability of _that _ever happening approached zero asymptotically, with no oscillation at all. "I like the way you illustrated the poem," he said, changing the subject, hoping to build on the foundation of sharing they had laid today, hoping to see her smile.

"And I like the book you sent."

"Seems we do have things in common, you and I," he said, smiling.

No smile came from her. "Yes," she agreed. "We both used MacLeod to kill our sons, because neither of us could do it ourselves."

Trust Cassandra to be the wet blanket at any party. "And we both wept when they were dead," he retorted. In this, her pain was no greater than his, and his responsibility was far more.

They stared at each other for a moment, then Cassandra nodded once and agreed. "Yes. We did."  
><em><strong><br>**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Continued in "Legacy"<strong>_


	4. Legacy

_Hope Triumphant I: Healer (part 4)**  
><strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>LEGACY<strong>

_**Wednesday, 28 May 1997**_  
><em><strong>Fort William, Scotland<strong>_

The spring afternoon grew warm, and Jennifer opened the window in her office to let in the fresh air, then waved to Cassandra who was on the sidewalk below. Jennifer noted with pleasure—and some relief—that Cassandra had finally chosen colors beyond the neutral palette. Her shorts were dark blue, her blouse patterned in ocean swirls of aqua and teal. She was even wearing jewelry: dangling silver and blue earrings, and a pendant of Celtic design on a thin green ribbon around her neck. "Come on in!" Jennifer called, and Cassandra waved back and came up the porch stairs and opened the door.

"Methos came to see me last week," Cassandra announced, right at the beginning of their session, just as soon as they had settled in the chairs with their tea.

"He knows where you live?" Jennifer asked, disturbed by this new development. Cassandra was still vulnerable and uncertain of her own feelings, and if Methos had decided to pursue her...

Cassandra shrugged and put her tea cup on the end-table. "He's good at hunting." Jennifer didn't find that reassuring, but Cassandra went on to explain, "A common acquaintance had died. Methos stopped by to tell me."

"And is that all you talked about?" Jennifer asked, but she knew already it wasn't. Cassandra was too controlled and too flippant, too busy hiding her emotions. She was trying to hide herself, too, pulling her knee up to her chest, sinking deeper into the chair.

Cassandra started tapping her fingers on her knee, an intricate, obsessive pattern. "He sent me a present," Cassandra admitted, without looking up. "A book of poetry." The tapping degenerated into a steady drumming of all eight fingers together, increased in intensity and speed to become a hammering of nails into bare flesh.

"Cassandra," Jennifer called, hoping to stop the other woman's compulsive behavior. "Cassandra!" Jennifer repeated, and Cassandra finally stopped, looking up in surprise. "When did he send you the book?" Jennifer asked. Cassandra's lashes fluttered, then she looked up with a steady, apparently honest gaze. Jennifer knew better; she had seen Cassandra lie before. "When?" Jennifer repeated, adding a touch of sternness to the word.

Cassandra opened her mouth, shut it, and tried again. "Last month."

Jennifer exhaled slowly as she reached for her own tea. Too soon. Much, much too soon. Methos might have had good intentions, might have been trying to make amends, but Cassandra wasn't ready for him. And Cassandra shouldn't be hiding things, either. "Why didn't you tell me about the book?" Jennifer asked, trying to make her tone as non-accusing as possible.

It didn't work. "I don't have to tell you everything!" Cassandra snapped, uncoiling from her chair and staring down at Jennifer, like a deadly cobra poised to strike. "You don't own me!"

Jennifer didn't move and tried not to flinch, just stared back impassively and waited. She'd seen this before, too. It took Cassandra a little longer than usual, but she finally whispered an apology and sat back down, then huddled in the chair. "Why didn't you tell me about the book?" Jennifer repeated, gently this time.

"I don't know," Cassandra said slowly. "I didn't even open it for two weeks; I tried to forget about it. I was afraid—" She stopped, her chin on her knees, arms wrapped around her legs, a tight ball of misery.

"Afraid of what?" prompted Jennifer.

Cassandra shrugged, a tiny helpless movement. "Roland used to send me things. Drawings, letters, photographs, descriptions of what he'd done to me. What he was going to do again. Even presents sometimes: jewelry, pottery, clothes, my favorite kind of tea. Just little reminders that he knew where I was, and that he knew what I liked."

A standard tactic for a stalker, Jennifer knew, to terrorize their victims from afar, paralyze them with fear, and then move in for the kill.

"But after our session two weeks ago, when we talked about my being in control of my actions," Cassandra was saying, "I went home, and I opened the package, because I wanted to prove to myself that I could, that I wasn't going to be afraid anymore. And it was just a book, and I liked it." Cassandra sighed and uncurled slightly, lifted her head and let go of her knees. "And it didn't bother me anymore, so I didn't tell you last week." Jennifer nodded understandingly, but Cassandra wasn't finished yet. "And I didn't tell you that I made Methos a present in return."

Jennifer didn't like the sound of that, but Cassandra wasn't acting defiant or ashamed, so maybe it wasn't too bad. "What did you make him?" Jennifer asked, moving onto neutral ground.

"An illuminated manuscript of one of his favorite poems," she answered, with some small show of accomplishment.

"Why?" Jennifer asked, which, of course, was the real question here. Why was Cassandra being nice to Methos, and why was Methos being nice to her? A healthy reconciliation, or a return to a dominator-submissive relationship? In her present state, Cassandra wouldn't be that hard to seduce. She was lonely, vulnerable, and confused. Offer a little kindness, some flattery, a taste of love—Methos knew exactly how to do it, too. He'd proven that before. And that type of relationship could be addicting, for both people involved.

"To be his equal?" Cassandra offered, getting up from the chair and pacing in front of the bookshelves, walking between the window and the door. "To show him some of what I'd learned in the last few thousand years? Because I won't accept gifts from him with giving something in return? Because I have my pride?"

"Do you?"

"Some," Cassandra replied, stopping behind the chair. "Yes. I'm not his sorry little slave anymore, and I want him to know that."

"Good," Jennifer said warmly, responding to the first half of Cassandra's statement. "You're defining yourself as a person. That's wonderful, Cassandra! You've made a lot of progress in finding out who you are, and in taking pride in what you can do." Cassandra stood a little straighter and even smiled at the words, but Jennifer couldn't let it rest there. "Perhaps you might think about whether you illustrated the poem to make yourself happy, or to make him happy."

Cassandra considered that, tapping her fingers on the back of the chair. "Both, I think, but mostly for myself. That's all right, isn't it?" she asked, suddenly unsure.

"Yes," Jennifer agreed. "As long as it doesn't go too far."

"It won't," Cassandra said firmly. "Never again."

"Good," Jennifer said again, but it was easier to say that than to do it. "How do you feel about Methos now, Cassandra?"

Cassandra sat in the chair again and went back to sipping tea, considering. "I guess ... I'm seeing him less as a symbol of evil, or as the master I remember, but more as a whole person. A person with his own interests and worries, his own sorrows and joys. Even ... a person not all that different from me."

"And how do you feel about him?" Jennifer asked once more, for Cassandra hadn't really answered the question.

Cassandra thought some more. "I think I'd feel safest if I didn't care about him at all. But I've loved him too much and hated him too much ever to be completely indifferent. Right now ..." She sighed and set down her teacup. "He's amusing, witty, and challenging, and I enjoy that. And I understand some of what he feels and what he's been through, so I feel empathetic to him, if not sympathetic."

Jennifer tried a third time, making it explicit this time. "How do you feel about him, Cassandra? Do you think you love him?"

"I don't know," she answered slowly. "I remember loving him, and making love to him, and I remember him making love to me. In some ways, I've started to like him and to see in him the person Duncan says Methos is. Would it be so bad if I forgave Methos, if I accepted him for what he is now? Duncan wants me to."

"But is it what you want?"

"I think that I should stop living in the past and get on with my life. Right?"

"Yes," Jennifer agreed cautiously. "But that doesn't mean you have to forget everything, or forgive everything."

Cassandra's mouth twisted in a wry and bitter smile. "I don't think I'll ever be able to forget, no matter how much I want to. But forgive?" She got up again, to go to the window and toy with the leaves of the spider-plant, but not—Jennifer saw with relief—to mutilate any of the leaves, living or dead. Cassandra said, more to herself than aloud, "I've had a lot of practice forgiving people who hurt me." She let go of the plant and tossed her head to flip her hair from her face, addressing Jennifer now. "Of course, I am still angry with Methos, and I want to make him realize what he's done, and I want to make him pay."

Jennifer nodded encouragingly, waiting for Cassandra to sort her way through this maze of conflicting emotions.

Cassandra came back and sat down, on the edge of the chair this time. "Yet, in a way I like him, and ... he seems to like me. He just sent me a present, and when we talked, we shared things I don't think we've ever told anyone else. So, is that love? To care that much about another person, and to enjoy being with them, yet also to want to teach them right and wrong, to make them accept the consequences for their actions?"

"Is that how you see love?" Jennifer asked, hoping against hope this wasn't going where it seemed to be going, but letting Cassandra have her say now. Later, they would sort through it piece by piece.

Cassandra leaned forward earnestly, her earrings swaying with the movement. "When we take on Immortal students, we have to be hard taskmasters to teach them enough to survive, yet often, the bond between teacher and students lasts for centuries. Like Ramirez and his student Rubio, or like Connor and Duncan."

"Or like you and Roland?" Jennifer challenged. From what Cassandra had described, most immortal relationships weren't exactly healthy, and they certainly weren't normal. Roland's relationship with Cassandra had been sick.

"Roland loved me," Cassandra replied, with complete certainty and an air of surprise. "Yes, he was abusive and obsessive, but he loved me. I was the most important person in the world to him. There were times ..." Her eyes unfocused and her voice softened, as she spoke of things she'd never mentioned before. "He used to bring me presents: music, pretty clothes, my favorite foods. We lived on a farm once, just the two of us, and in the evenings in the summer we would watch the sunset. In the winter we would sing together in front of the fire. He could be so sweet. For months, even years at a time."

Honeymoon phase, thought Jennifer, the seductive aspect of the cycle of abuse, and all the more seductive because the love was real—a sick and twisted love, to be sure, but still love, and for many people, any love at all was better than being alone.

Cassandra went on, still staring at nothing, "I would think, 'He's getting better; I've helped him. He just needs me to be with him, the way I should have been with him when he was a child.' And when he did ... get angry, I knew, at those times, he needed me even more, so I couldn't leave him. Even though I hated what he did, I still loved him. And he was so frightened of being alone."

And now the classic "as long as he needs me" refrain from that asinine song in the musical "Oliver." Jennifer closed her eyes briefly, wondering how in the name of God such complete self-sacrifice could ever be condoned. But it had been, for century after century, in story after story, sermon after sermon, song after song. For Cassandra, who had been Roland's mother and then forced into the role of lover, the urge to help and protect him had been doubly strong.

Cassandra concluded, "He needed me, and he loved me. No one else did, not for thousands of years. No one."

Jennifer bit her lip to keep from saying: Because he murdered your husband and children in front of your eyes, killed everyone you cared about, and made it impossible for you to have any kind of relationship with anyone but him! This wasn't the time for such words; Cassandra wouldn't hear them. She had begun to weep, mourning the son who had nearly destroyed her, the son she had begged Duncan to kill, the son she had truly loved.

Jennifer handed the box of tissues to Cassandra, and she took them but said, with a tentative wave of her hand, "Would you ...?"

"Would you like to be alone?" Jennifer asked, and at Cassandra's nod, Jennifer left the room, murmuring something about the water closet down the hall. As Jennifer washed her hands at the sink, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror. More gray. She peered more closely. And more wrinkles, too. Add her bifocals and a little—all right, more than a little—extra padding around her hips and thighs, and she already looked a perfect grandmother. At least she wasn't one yet; Dorcas and Miriam weren't even out of the house, though they'd be gone in few more years. And by then, of course, Jennifer would also be older. "Fifty-four," Jennifer murmured. When Miriam turned eighteen, Jennifer would be fifty-four.

Six months ago, she hadn't minded that so much, or she hadn't thought she minded. But six months ago, she hadn't known about Immortals. But then again, to be enslaved, raped, tortured, killed, conquered, and banished over and over again, to move all the time, to go about in fear of all other Immortals, to watch family after family die, to be so alone ... even staying forever young and enjoying intermittent decades of peace and happiness didn't make up for that.

Jennifer dried her hands and considered her next move with Cassandra. Later, maybe at the next session, they could finally stop talking about Methos and the Stockholm syndrome, and get started on Roland and the cycles of battering, where the serious long-lasting damage had been done. But today, they needed to finish this business about Methos. He wasn't really that important in Cassandra's history—one year in over three thousand—but he was still alive, so Cassandra tended to focus most of her emotions on him, a convenient dumping ground.

When Jennifer came into the office, Cassandra was back at the window, tracing the leaves of the plant from stem to tip with a single finger, over and over again. She turned at Jennifer's entrance and resumed her seat. "Well," she said briskly, when Jennifer had sat down, "I guess I still haven't answered your question: 'Do I think I love Methos?'"

"I'm supposed to be the one to say that," Jennifer said, smiling, glad to see Cassandra had regained enough composure to show some humor. Cassandra smiled briefly in return, and Jennifer offered, giving Cassandra a choice, "Would you rather talk more about Roland now?"

"No," Cassandra said. "We'll get to him later, I'm sure. Let's finish Methos."

"All right," Jennifer agreed, pleased, then prompted one more time, "Do you think you love Methos?"

Instead of answering, Cassandra reached for her tea. She sipped and swallowed, then clutched the cup in both hands. "I know that I can love someone and hate someone, all at the same time. And right now, that's how I feel about Methos. I'm angry with him, but I also know that he could have killed me, and he didn't. He fought his brother to save my life. And maybe ... maybe I helped him, too, helped him turn away from his brothers in Bordeaux. Last month in Brighton, he told me that when I was with him three thousand years ago, I reminded him of what he used to be before he was a Horseman."

Jennifer swore silently in concern and dismay. For the past five months, Cassandra had consistently used the word "slave" when she spoke of her time with Methos, and now she had been "with him"? As if they had been dating, or going to a movie?

"Maybe if I'd been with him longer then," Cassandra said, "he would have changed a long time ago. Maybe I should have done more for him. If I'd only—"

"Cassandra," Jennifer broke in, "are you saying it's your fault Methos was a Horseman?"

"No," she answered slowly. "But I should have stopped him, somehow, or tried—"

"Why?" Jennifer asked, recognizing the familiar refrain once more. "Why is it your responsibility to fix him?"

Cassandra stared at her blankly, then explained as if to an idiot, "Because that's what women do."

"That's what women used to be expected to do," Jennifer replied, trying to bring Cassandra into the twentieth century. "Things have changed."

"Have they?"

"Yes," Jennifer said. "Women can work now, or be in politics, or go to school—" She stopped abruptly, for Cassandra had started to laugh.

"Oh, Jennifer," Cassandra said, still laughing. "Women have always been in politics. We're the best lobbyists in the world. A few of us, the exceptional ones, have been empresses and queens. We have held such power in our hands. And women have always worked. Always."

"Are you saying things aren't better for women now?" Jennifer asked. "Are you saying women's rights haven't given us more opportunities? My daughters can go to schools that used to be only for men. I've been to college. I'm a professional."

"Oh, yes," Cassandra admitted breezily with a wave of her hand. "In a few countries, in a small percentage of the world's population, the privileged, wealthy women have more options than they used to. But for most women in the world, nothing has changed. We still birth and rear the children, take care of the sick and the old and the dying, do all the daily chores. Women grow the food, maintain and often build the houses, feed the families, make and clean the clothes, haul the water, gather the fuel and keep the home fires burning. That hasn't changed, not at all. That's what women do."

"But women are good for more than just those chores," Jennifer protested. "We can do more than that."

"Of course, we can do more!" Cassandra snapped. "We can do it all. We can build, we can go dancing, we can kill, we can even do math. But what do you mean by 'just those chores'? Do you have any idea how complicated it is to manage a household of three hundred when that household includes a castle and a wool industry and gardens and breweries and children and animals and a fighting force of fifty men?"

"Sounds like a running a corporation," Jennifer acknowledged, hoping to get Cassandra off her rant.

"Yes, and women were the CEOs. And even on a smaller scale, running a household isn't easy. Women used to be respected for what they did, both by men and by other women. Caring and providing for others was a holy obligation and a joyful duty, not a 'chore' to be dumped on someone with less status than you. Lately, it seems people only do things for themselves. Are you saying that 'women's work' has no value? That taking care of others is not worthwhile?"

"No," Jennifer said, forcing herself to say the word calmly. She took a deep breath and tried to regain control of the conversation. "I never said that. Don't put words in my mouth, Cassandra. I meant only that women now have the opportunity to work outside the home."

"So do men," Cassandra retorted. "They didn't use to, you know. Everyone used to work 'at home,' and the status between men's work and women's work was more equal then. Now everything's based on money. You should read more history."

"You're right," Jennifer agreed instantly, allowing Cassandra this small victory, because Cassandra needed to feel like she'd won somehow, and besides, Cassandra was right. Jennifer did need to read more. She just didn't have time.

Cassandra stopped to take her own calming breath, but she wasn't finished yet. "Even when women do work outside the home, things haven't changed that much," Cassandra insisted, and when Jennifer opened her mouth to object, Cassandra asked swiftly, "What is your chosen profession, Jennifer?"

Jennifer didn't answer immediately, and Cassandra smiled as she captured her prey. "You fix people, Jennifer, just like you're supposed to do. Women rear the children, keep the homes, work in the schools, the hospitals, the communities, the churches ... we civilize the men. That's what women do."

Jennifer leaned back in her chair with a sigh. That was indeed what many women did, and had done throughout the ages, and _still _did, but it was long past the time for both men and women to start civilizing themselves. And long past time to get back to Methos. "All right, most women usually try to help other people," Jennifer agreed. "And that's a good thing, and it would be even better if men did it, too. But sometimes, women take on too much. We can't possibly fix everything, and we shouldn't blame ourselves for that. You couldn't have stopped Methos from being a Horseman, Cassandra. You can't change someone who doesn't want to change. Each person has to take responsibility for themselves."

"Methos changed me," she retorted. "And you told me earlier that it wasn't my fault. Well?" she demanded. "Was it my fault? Did I want him to 'tame' me?"

"No," Jennifer said firmly. "To do that to you, he had to take away your freedom—and that took away your responsibility, too." She tried to make the matter clear. "You're right, Cassandra, you can change someone against their will, but to do that to another person ... it makes you as bad as he was."

"But he did start to care about me," Cassandra insisted, still clinging to that tattered scrap of affection. "All those stories and books about men being changed by the love of a good woman—are they all lies? And Methos cares about me now, so isn't it better for me to realize that? Especially if, this time, I'm the one in control?"

"Do you want to be like Methos was?" Jennifer challenged. "To be like Roland? Controlling people with pain?"

"No!" Cassandra replied. "I meant—I want to be in control of myself, and in control of what I feel. And isn't it better for me to love more than I hate?"

Maybe not right now, Jennifer considered saying, but decided against it. It seemed they wouldn't be ready to move on to Roland so quickly after all. "Cassandra, I think you need to be very clear on what hate is, and on what love is—healthy love, not obsessive love—before you can come to any decision about Methos."

"I know the difference between love and hate," Cassandra said earnestly. "I know Roland hated me, even as he loved me. I can see that. And I know he was insane and that he hurt many people, not just me, but most of the time when I was with him, he wasn't like that."

"You've never spoken of those times before."

"I didn't want to remember the good things. I needed to hate him, completely, before I could ask Duncan to kill him. I was terrified that Roland would find me, yes, because I knew the first few months would be—" She stopped, her knuckles going white as her fingers tightened on the cup.

"Like your first weeks with Methos," Jennifer supplied. A living—and dying—hell. Torture, rape, humiliation, sleep deprivation, beatings, being locked for days into a box too small to stand in, enforced prostitution, starvation, murder, strangling—the list went on and on, over and over again.

Cassandra nodded mutely, then slowly relaxed her fingers and went on. "After Roland was sure I was ... tamed, he didn't hurt me. Just like Methos. Except, when Methos got angry, he took it out on another slave. When Roland got angry, he took it out on me. But that didn't happen very often, and even when Roland hurt me, he'd tell me that he loved me, that he wouldn't do it unless he cared, and that he was just trying to make me a better person. Methos told me that, too. I've heard many parents tell their children the same thing during a spanking, and I know they love them."

Cassandra leaned forward, a school-child sure of her lesson and eager to please, "So, isn't that love?"

* * *

><p><strong><em>Continued in "The Watchers"<em>**


	5. The Watchers

_Hope Triumphant I: Healer (part 5)_

* * *

><p><strong>THE WATCHERS<strong>_**  
><strong>_

_**Sunday, 2 November 1997**_  
><em><strong>Rousby Hall, Scotland<strong>_

In the gloom of a rainy November afternoon, and on his way home from visiting Heather's grave in Glen Coe, Connor stopped by Cassandra's flat.

"Any luck finding Duncan?" Cassandra asked after she had invited him in for tea, and Connor shook his head. It had been nearly six months since Duncan had walked away from Richie's headless body in Paris, and none of the detective agencies Connor had hired had found anything since July. They had told him that Duncan had sold the dojo in Seacouver and put all his things in storage, but Duncan had done it all by mail, and, like most Immortals, he had learned to cover his tracks well. Connor hadn't found any trace of Duncan here in the Highlands, either, and Connor had gone to every place he could think of: caves and hidden glens and remote outcroppings of stone, abandoned remnants of villages and crofts. He had found only sheep.

"Any word from Methos?" Connor asked.

"Nothing," she answered. "Not a word from him since the end of May, when he arrived in Istanbul."

Connor snorted. So much for Methos wanting to help. He'd probably gone to wait this out on a sunny beach, far away from any danger. Or maybe he'd decided to sit back and watch.

"And the Watchers still don't know where Duncan is," Cassandra said.

"How do you know that?" Connor demanded.

"I told my Watcher to give me her computer passwords."

Connor snorted again. Handy thing, that Voice of hers, but not much use in this hunt. He paced in front of the windows, wanting to go to Duncan, to do something—anything!—to help his kinsman somehow, but he didn't know where to go and he didn't know what to do. God, he hated waiting like this!

Cassandra sat down in the rocking chair facing the fire and said softly, "There is another way to find him."

Connor stopped pacing, confused, then realized what she meant. "Why didn't you suggest it before?"

"You weren't ready to listen."

True enough. But after half a year of worrying, he was desperate enough to try anything, even witchcraft. "Can you ask for dreams to come to you?" he asked, sitting on the end of the couch nearer to her.

"No," she answered. "I have no control over those. I thought we might try scrying."

Connor nodded slowly, remembering the young clanswomen giggling as they stood about a bowl of water, trying to see the faces of their future husbands in the ripples, "scrying the future" they called it. Sometimes one of the women would go silent and leave the bowl with far-away eyes, and then all the giggling and teasing would stop, with the other women watching, half-curious, half-afraid.

Cassandra went into her bedroom and came back with a silver bowl, the twin (triplet, actually) to the ones she had given to his children Colin and Sara at their christening. "Fill this with rainwater, about a fingertip deep," she instructed him then disappeared into her bedroom again.

Connor stared at the shallow vessel, then heaved himself to his feet and went outside into the gloom. He set the bowl on the step and took shelter near the overhang of the door. Five minutes later, there was barely a fingernail's worth of rainwater, let alone a fingertip's. Connor muttered an oath, then stuck the bowl under the rainspout at the corner of the building. In twenty seconds he had all the water he needed, and he went back inside.

The flat was gloomy, too, for Cassandra had turned off the electric lights, and the only light came from the peat fire. She had unbound her hair and taken off her shoes, and changed her blue jeans and white angora sweater for a gown of russet and gold. The carved stone necklace of the triple crescents hung from a leather thong about her neck.

"Take off your shoes," she told him as she replaced the books on the coffee table with a black candle. "Socks, too."

Connor bit back a reply and complied, wondering just what he had gotten himself into. He set the bowl of rainwater next to the unlit candle on the coffee table, then settled back on his heels facing Cassandra, his back to the fire. The warmth from the flames took away some of the dampness of his sweater. "No black cat?" he asked. "No eye of newt or tail of dog?"

"No," she said, smiling. "Just water and fire, earth and air."

"Does it have to be rainwater?"

"No," she said. "I've used spring water and well water, even tap water sometimes, but that's more difficult."

"Seems like water's water."

"And a sword's a sword," she retorted.

The right tool for the job. Connor grunted in understanding. "Do you usually do ... all of this?" He waved his hand at the darkened room, the unlit candle. "Do you always wear those clothes?"

"Usually, I do this naked," she answered serenely, "but I thought that might be distracting."

Connor nodded gravely, keeping his face—and his mind—carefully blank.

"Unsheath your katana, Connor, and put it on the table, at your right hand." While he did so, she took off her necklace and lay the pendant at her right side, arranging the thong until curved in the same way as the blade of his weapon. "Any more questions?" she asked, and when he shook his head, she told him, "Light the candle from the fire."

At least she didn't want him to bang rocks together or use a fire-bow. Connor lit the candle, then placed it back in the center of the table, next to the bowl of rainwater. Cassandra offered him both her hands across the table, and he took them in his own.

He sat and waited, wondering if spirits would knock on the wall or the table would move. Maybe Elvis would sing. Connor released his breath slowly, let go of the uneasy flippancy, too, and centered in on the flame. The circle of light from the candle glinted on the metal of the blade, touched on the leather thong. He idly watched the shadows dancing in the water, the ripples moving there, and wondered where Duncan was, when Cassandra would start to speak. Wax dripped all the way down the side of the candle before she said anything.

"What do you see in the water, Connor?" Cassandra asked.

He jerked his head up. "Me?"

"You asked the question. You know him best in all the world, and you can reach him better than I."

"I don't—"

"Think of Duncan, Connor. Picture him, from when you first met him, and then later, and look for him in the water."

Her steady stare across the table challenged him, and her firm grip on his hands made it hard to just walk away. Besides, he'd already been staring at the water and wondering about Duncan. Connor went back to looking at the bowl, picturing Duncan through the years.

The memories came to him easily enough, for he had thought of Duncan often lately, but this time the memories came quickly and in color, one after the other, like the flickers of poles watched from the window of a train. The images were always of Duncan's eyes, and the eyes were always lit by fire.

His very first glimpse of Duncan, when Connor had been caught in a newborn's wise and wondering stare, beside the fire in Cassandra's cottage in Donan Woods. Duncan's eyes again, wild and haunted and fey in the aftermath of a Quickening, while a pine tree flared like a torch nearby and a dead hermit lay inside a cave. Duncan's shining gaze as he listened eagerly by the light of their campfire in the Highlands; Duncan's fierce glare as he battled English soldiers by the blaze of burning houses; Duncan's laughing glances by torchlight in a tavern, while the women smiled at him and asked him to dance.

More memories, more images, more flickers. Duncan weeping by the funeral pyre of Little Deer, and Duncan weeping again, by a single candle in a modern home, as he and Connor held a wake for Tessa and drank the night away. Duncan during last Christmas at Connor's home, relaxed near the fire with a whisky in his hand, as they spoke of Richie and students and sons.

Then came another image, one Connor had never remembered, never imagined. Duncan knelt before a low table, staring at a small flame that danced floating above a bowl of oil, while behind him black shadows flickered in the barren room, empty and dark and lost, just like Duncan's eyes.

Connor blinked, and the image was gone. Only ripples moved on the surface of the water, and the candle had burned down. He swayed, blinking again, and Cassandra gripped his hands hard. "Close your eyes," she commanded, and that helped. She brought him water, and he drank it eagerly. Then she brought him tea, and that was even better. He made his way to the couch and lay back, his eyes closed, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

When he finally sat up, Cassandra was sewing nearby in the rocking chair, making tiny stitches in a small piece of white cloth embroidered in red and gold. Except for the reading lamp near her shoulder, she looked much as she had four hundred years ago, when he had been her student in Donan Woods, and she had spent the evenings spinning or sewing by the fire.

"Have a nice nap?" she inquired, selecting a new spool.

"I fell asleep?" Connor asked in disbelief. She raised an eyebrow and snipped off a thread. Connor blinked and stretched then asked, "How does scrying work?"

"How does television work?" she countered, answering with a question, as she often did.

Connor used that teaching technique himself sometimes, but it got annoying. He knew the general theory behind television, if not the details. A transmitter tower sent out energy waves, they went through the air somehow, and the TV turned them into pictures. "So, I'm the television set, and Duncan's the transmitter?" he asked.

"That's one way to think of it," she agreed, stitching away, her needle flashing. "I'm the antenna, to help you pick up the signal."

"Like tin foil tied onto the rabbit ears," Connor suggested, remembering the days before cable TV and satellite transmissions, when getting a decent picture meant fiddling with those two long sticks of the antenna.

She gave him a glare of pretended annoyance as she repeated, "Tin foil, is it?" and Connor grinned at her. She smiled back and said again, "That's one way to think of it. I didn't have to do much this time. You and Duncan know each other very well, so you're on the same 'frequency.'"

"Can I learn to do it again, without your help?"

Cassandra made a few more stitches. "Maybe, with Duncan. It's not so much that you have to learn to do it, as you have to unlearn how not to do it."

Connor dismissed it from his mind, for now. He'd rather stick with detective agencies.

Cassandra set down her sewing. "What did you see?"

"Don't you know?" he asked in surprise.

"I'm just the tin foil, remember?"

"And the rabbit ears," he pointed out, giving her full credit.

"Right. And the rabbit ears," she agreed, smiling again. "No, I didn't see it. You asked the question, Connor."

So he had, but he'd never thought he'd be the one to get an answer, never even thought it would work. "I saw Duncan, through the years, as a baby in Donan Woods, the first time we met after he became an Immortal, other times. And then ... now, I guess."

"And?" she prompted, leaning forward.

"He was dressed all in white, kneeling in a bare room, like a monk's cell, but no crucifix, no candle. Just an oil lamp."

Cassandra nodded and picked up her sewing again. "He's gone to Holy Ground, but not, it sounds, a Christian one. Buddhist, perhaps?"

"He could be anywhere," Connor realized.

"But we know he's alive."

Connor nodded, taking comfort in that. At least they had an idea; they could start looking again. "He seemed so alone."

Cassandra reached for the crimson thread and the needle. "Maybe he needs to be."

"You've said that before," he commented, watching her as she moistened the thread with tongue and lips, then held the needle up to the light. The thread went through the eye easily, and she tied off a knot, seemingly unconcerned with it all. "What do you know?" he asked.

"I don't _know_," she said. "It's a feeling. Maybe it's just for me, maybe other people can do more, but I can't get involved."

"You were 'involved' in his life before he was even born," Connor pointed out sharply, incensed that she would desert Duncan in the face of this demon or whatever the hell it was. "And you haven't minded him getting 'involved' in your life, either. He's always been there for you."

Cassandra wet her lips again, but the needle lay unused in her hand. "I can't, Connor."

"Why not?" he demanded, leaning forward, six months' worth of frustration and worry coming out now. "What do you know?"

She shook her head and settled down to stitching again. "You'll think it's stupid."

Connor reached over and snatched the cloth from her hands, stabbing himself with the needle as did so. "This whole goddamned thing is stupid," he snarled at her. "Demons, fogs, dead people walking around, Duncan taking Richie's head! What the hell do you have that can top that?"

Cassandra stood and yanked the cloth from him. "What do I have?" she snarled right back. "I have nothing. Nothing, except three thousand years of visions and nightmares and dreams, of seeing the future and being able to do nothing! Nothing!"

"So do something now," he challenged her, surprised, but gratified at her response. "Help me find Duncan."

"No," she said, her anger suddenly submerged into a more familiar icy control. "I can't."

"_Why?_" Connor exploded as he stood to confront her, ignoring the dizziness that threatened to bring him to his knees.

Her words came even and measured, words oft-repeated, words well-known. "Death is life and life is death, and all are bound by blood; yet he must walk alone."

"And what the hell is that?" Connor demanded

Cassandra lifted her chin. "The end of the prophecy."

Connor swore in disgusted disbelief. "There's more? I thought you were over that nonsense." That ancient curse from three thousand years ago had damn near crippled her, made her believe she was helpless to do anything to protect herself against that bastard Roland. Connor had thought she'd gotten beyond that passive victim trap.

Cassandra sat down regally, spreading her skirt about her with a graceful hand, then fixed him with a cold stare. "I told you that you would think it was stupid."

It was, but Connor was having a hard time finding the words to tell her so. The room seemed very small, the floor very close.

"Sit down!" Cassandra said firmly and stood quickly to push him backwards onto the couch. "Close your eyes again," she told him. "Don't move; I'll bring you some food."

Connor lay back again, his hands flat on the couch, holding on there. In a few moments, Cassandra handed a thick slice of bread, and he kept his eyes closed as he nibbled at it, tasting the sweetness of honey over the nuttiness of wheat.

"I should have fed you right away," she said. "I didn't think scrying would take you this hard."

"Does it bother you?" Connor asked, cautiously opening one eye.

"Not very much, but I've had practice. It did, in the beginning." Cassandra headed for the kitchenette. "I'll cook you dinner."

"I'm going home for dinner," Connor announced firmly, shutting his eyes again.

"Fine," Cassandra agreed, slamming a pot down on the burner. "Then I'll cook you a snack now, and you can eat a late dinner when you get home."

Connor opened his eyes enough to look at his watch. Five-thirty! How long had he slept? He had promised Alex he'd be home by five. Connor shoved the last bite of bread into his mouth, picked up his katana, and headed for the door, refusing to hold onto the furniture as he walked by.

"And just where are you going?" Cassandra asked.

"Home for dinner," Connor gritted out, making his way around the treacherous, outflung legs of the rocking chair. He succeeded without mishap, but by then, Cassandra was guarding the door.

"You need to eat first, Connor, maybe even spend the night."

There was no way in hell he was going to sleep at Cassandra's house. Connor casually put a hand on the wall and leaned, trying to make that look casual, too. Centuries of drinking had given him plenty of practice. "I'm going home."

"I'll call Alex and tell her you're here," Cassandra said. "You can't leave yet. What if you met an Immortal when you were like this?"

Now that was a cheery thought. He'd definitely stick with detective agencies. Connor moved carefully to sit down on the nearest available horizontal surface, which (he realized too late) was the rocking chair. Connor planted his feet on the ground and refused to rock. "Give me the phone," he ordered Cassandra. "I'll call Alex." His wife did not need to hear from his former lover, not today, not when he'd left to spend the day by the grave of his former wife, not when he'd promised Alex he'd be back by dinnertime, back where he belonged, at home with her.

Instead, he was sitting in Cassandra's house, letting his former teacher/lover/mentor cook him dinner, while Alex waited for him. "Bring me the phone," he demanded again. Cassandra gave him another one of her icy, imperious stares, and he shut his eyes, glad to have an excuse to ignore her completely. But in another moment, the phone was in his hand, already ringing, and he looked up in time to see Cassandra disappear into her bedroom. Connor slowly slid from the rocking chair onto the blessedly-immobile floor and waited for his wife to pick up the phone.

"Hello?" Alex said, cool and casual, but Connor heard the strain underneath the word.

"It's Connor," he said immediately. "I'm fine."

"Connor," she said, and now he could hear the smile. "I'm just finishing giving Colin his bath. Sara wants hers, too." A loud screech of impatience and a splashing of water in the background confirmed it.

"You'll have to give Sara her bath tonight, Alex," Connor said, wishing he were there to get wet, too. "I won't be home for another two hours."

"All right," Alex said evenly, after the barest of pauses. "John's almost done with his homework, so we'll go ahead and eat, and I'll make up a plate for you."

She didn't ask where he was or what he was doing, but then she never did, not when she thought it was about Immortal business. Connor had asked her not to; he didn't want her to be reminded of the Game, to hear the messy, ugly details, to know the hands that caressed her at night had killed someone that day. But Alex needed to know about this. "I'm at Cassandra's," he said and continued quickly, "We have information about where Duncan is." Explaining how he had gotten that information was too complicated to go into right now. "We're almost done looking into it."

"That's wonderful, Connor! What did—?" Alex dropped the phone on the floor. "Colin!" she called, her voice getting fainter. "Come back here!"

Connor waited, knowing exactly what was happening. Colin, naked, wet, and very determined, was crawling as fast as he could go, heading straight for the stairs. Meanwhile, Sara was probably trying to take off her socks, pulling on the toes and getting madder and madder when the socks refused to come loose. Or maybe she was emptying the shoe shelves again.

Alex's voice came back in range. "Sara, no! Not the shoes!"

Connor grinned. "I'll be home as fast as I can," he promised Alex as soon as she picked up the phone.

"Good," Alex said decisively. "We need you." Colin chimed in with, "Dah, dah, dah," and Sara screeched again. Alex's voice softened. "And I need you, too."

"Soon," Connor promised, hoping the twins might both go to sleep soon after he got home, and that Alex might want to stay awake. "I love you."

"I love you, too, Connor," she said, and before the phone turned off, he heard her calling, "Sara! NO!"

Connor was still grinning when Cassandra came back out, dressed in her sweater and jeans again. She went straight to the kitchenette and made him a sandwich, piled high with turkey and cheese. "You need protein," she said, setting it before him on the floor, then brought him another cup of tea, sweetened with honey. She joined him there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning her back against the couch, eating a sandwich of her own.

Connor ate hungrily, but slowly, and by the time he was finished, the dizziness had almost disappeared.

"More tea," Cassandra proclaimed and brought them each another cup. "I hadn't thought about it being All Souls Day," she said quietly, while she stirred her tea. "I remembered this morning, of course, and thought of Heather, but—"

"Fine," Connor said abruptly, not willing to discuss this with her. He'd shown enough weakness in front of Cassandra already today.

She leaned back against the couch and sipped at her tea. "It seems Ramirez was right, and I was wrong," she said mildly. Connor looked up, confused, and Cassandra set her cup down on its saucer and continued, "He said you had the manners of a goat, and I said you would learn." She stood and said quietly, "I'd like you to leave, Connor."

Connor got to his feet, relieved that the dizziness was completely gone. "What?"

"I want you to leave. I won't be used anymore, not even by you."

"Damn it, Cassandra, I wasn't usi—"

"You walk into my home, ask for my help, use my powers to help you find Duncan, sneer at those same powers when I start to explain my reasons for not getting involved, grab my sewing, eat my food, and then interrupt me."

Well, yes, he had, but ... "I'm worried about Duncan."

"So am I," she retorted. "That's no excuse for being arrogant and selfish. Go home and ask your son John to teach you some manners. He knows how to say please and thank you. So do you, but apparently you don't think politeness is worth wasting on me."

"I didn't—"

"No," she interrupted him again. "You didn't. Leave."

Connor didn't move. "You should at least give me a chance."

Cassandra tilted her head as she looked him up and down. "To do what?"

"To apologize," Connor said with a slight grin, willing to admit she might have a point.

Cassandra didn't smile back, and the silence stretched between them for three heartbeats. Then Cassandra went to the door and opened it, revealing a thin curtain of rain illuminated against the darkness by the light from the room. "That was your chance, Connor."

Connor snorted to himself. Really on her high horse tonight, wasn't she? "Cassandra, I'm sorry, OK? I'm tired, I'm worried about Duncan, I'm—"

"Still selfish," she interrupted. "Still giving me excuses about why you think you have the right to treat me like dirt, reasons why I should accept your behavior. You don't have that right, and I won't accept that behavior. Get out."

Connor muttered an oath as he grabbed his coat off the back of the couch. He'd been about to leave anyway. He was halfway out the door when she thrust that embroidered scrap of white cloth at him.

"Take it," she ordered.

"It's not finished," Connor protested, for the flower was not quite done.

"Wrong," she said coldly. "It's finished with your blood." And so it was, a dark smear in the center of the golden petals, where the needle had stabbed his hand. Connor stared at his blood in the flower, remembering other spatters of his blood on embroidered cloth, while he had lain on the ground bleeding to death and Cassandra had looked down on him and smiled, a bloody sword in her hand. He had no doubt Cassandra was remembering that, too.

Connor stalked by her, not touching the cloth. Cassandra stood at the door until he walked out, then she bolted it shut behind him. Connor turned up the collar of his coat and ventured into the rain.

* * *

><p><strong>RITE OF PASSAGE<strong>

**_The MacLeod Farm_  
><strong>

Alex stopped pushing the buttons on the microwave and turned around to stare at her husband, who was sitting on the floor with a happy twin on either side of him, surrounded by a sea of plastic containers. "You did _what_ with Cassandra?" Alex asked.

"Scrying," Connor answered and gravely accepted the Cheerio offered from Sara's finger. Colin babbled away and displayed his new four-toothed grin as he banged a plastic bowl on the floor. Connor shrugged and grimaced and snorted, all at the same time, an embarrassed admission. "Cassandra is a witch."

"Really?" Alex had thought that was just a joke, when Connor and Cass had mentioned it over a year ago.

Connor wasn't laughing. "Really."

"Oh." Well, if Alex could believe in immortality, she might as well believe in witchcraft, too. But the demon-thing was more than she wanted to deal with. Alex turned back to the microwave and punched the rest of the buttons to heat up Connor's tuna-noodle casserole for him, then she busied herself getting the rest of his dinner on the table, taking refuge from the other-worldly in the mundane.

Connor smiled his thanks for the dinner as he sat down to eat. He'd taken a few bites when he asked casually, "Cassandra likes chocolate, right?"

"Doesn't everybody?" Alex asked, then realized Connor was serious. "Yes, she does. She likes chocolate cake." Alex joined her husband at the table and took another look at Connor, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. It wasn't Cassandra's birthday. It wasn't Christmas. Connor wasn't just being kind. Alex didn't understand demons, but she did understand her husband. "What did you do to her, Connor?"

He carefully buttered his roll before he answered. "She said I was rude."

Alex was careful not to smile. "Did she?"

"Told me to get out of her house."

"Well, it's about time," Alex said, relieved that nothing more serious had happened. The last time Cassandra had accused Connor of rudeness, she'd tried to take his head.

Connor set down his knife. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"I've been wondering when she was going to stand up to you." His eyes narrowed, and Alex explained, "Sometimes, Connor, you can be a little overbearing. Or impatient."

"I don't put up with crap."

Alex smiled as she rose from the table. "Looks like Cassandra doesn't, either. Not anymore." Alex scooped up Colin, who wailed in protest at being taken from his toys. "Sara took a late nap today, Connor, but you can put her to bed in about half an hour. I'm going to put Colin to bed now." Alex ran up the stairs, bouncing Colin on each step to make him giggle, and wondering if she could call Cassandra tonight and get the whole story. Maybe when Connor took his shower.

* * *

><p>"Miss Grant! Miss Grant!" the girls chittered excitedly when Cassandra came into the classroom on Monday afternoon. "Somebody sent you a present. Are you going to open it? Please?"<p>

Cassandra set down her bag and looked warily at the small, white box sitting in the middle of her desk. Her name and classroom number were written on a tag, and below them were the initials "C. M." The girls crowded around while Cassandra opened the box. Inside, nestled on dark green tissue paper, were three spheres wrapped in gold-tinted foil.

"Chocolate oranges!" Liana exclaimed, flipping back her dark braids. "Oh, I love those. Each piece of chocolate looks just like an orange segment, and you break up the orange and eat them all."

Oranges as a peace offering, and chocolate ones at that. Connor hadn't lost his touch. Cassandra smiled as she handed Liana one. "Why don't you girls share this now?" she suggested. She'd keep one for herself, and share the other with the MacLeods.

"Are they from your boyfriend, Miss Grant?" Liana asked, tearing off the foil, and the other girls waited expectantly.

"No," Cassandra said, dashing their hopes. "They're from an old friend." A very good friend.

* * *

><p>"Want a piece of chocolate, Connor?" Cassandra offered on Saturday afternoon, as she sat in the kitchen of the MacLeods' home. "It's good."<p>

"Glad to hear it," Connor said, also glad that she had accepted his apology so easily. She hadn't always been so agreeable. He broke off a segment of the chocolate orange and joined her at the table. He had almost finished eating it before he asked the question that had been bothering him all week. "Am I usually rude to you?"

"No, Connor," Cassandra said swiftly. "Not usually. And you've never been any more rude than I let you be. But sometimes, I let you get away with a lot."

Well, that didn't make any sense. "Why?" Connor asked.

She nibbled at her chocolate then set it down and shrugged. "Standard reasons. I didn't think I deserved any better, I was too afraid to stand up for myself, but mostly because it's what I'm used to. Not just from you, but from all men—and all my owners, male and female—over the centuries. Being treated with respect, being thought of as an equal, a person ... and thinking of myself the same way ..." She took a drink of water before she met his eyes. "It's new to me."

Connor nodded, wondering what else Cassandra would discover about herself. He was curious to see the finished product.

"But ... I overreacted," Cassandra admitted hesitantly. "I shouldn't have—"

"You did fine," Connor broke in, hurriedly forestalling any apology. He'd had enough of that from her over the last year and a half, and he didn't like seeing her still so uncertain of herself, so broken. Maybe she had overreacted, but, by God, showing a little temper was better than letting people walk all over you—or letting them kill you. At least she'd gotten past that. "Hey," Connor said with a grin, realizing she wanted—or maybe still needed—more of his approval, "you didn't try to kill me this time. That's progress."

Cassandra relaxed and gave him a cheeky grin. "And no broken dishes, either."

"Right," Connor agreed, laughing now. "You'll find a balance."

"In time," she said softly, then they each broke off another segment and ate in companionable silence until John came walking through the kitchen.

"Hey, chocolate!" John said, veering from his straight-line path to the refrigerator. "Can I have some?"

"Of course," Cassandra said and pushed the chocolate orange to him. John smiled at Cassandra in gratitude and admiration, then broke off four segments and popped one in his mouth. He rummaged in the refrigerator and the cupboards, then carried the other three segments, a banana, and a bagel outside. "Didn't he just eat two sandwiches at lunch?" Cassandra asked in bemusement, and at Connor's nod she said, "Even after all these years, I'm still amazed by how much a teenage boy can eat. Duncan had quite the appetite at that age, too."

Connor snorted in amusement, but he couldn't laugh about Duncan, not now.

"What have you told John?" Cassandra asked gently.

Connor sighed and pushed back his chair. "We told him there was an accident and Richie died, and that Duncan is blaming himself. John assumed we meant a car accident, and we let it go at that. The demon stuff—" Connor shook his head in disgust. "It's just so damn stupid." He stood and went to the window over the sink to stare out at the hills beyond, thinking of Richie's bright promise. Gone now, like so many others in the Game, but to die that way, at the hand of a friend, to die for nothing... "Such a damned waste."

Cassandra joined him at the counter. "Duncan will come back, Connor. He won't be on Holy Ground forever."

"Sure of that?" he challenged her.

"Yes," she answered, and Connor saw the certain knowledge in the depths of her green eyes. Witch, indeed. He nodded and turned back to the window, accepting it but not liking it, not liking any of it at all. "There's nothing we can do but wait, Connor," she said. "Wait, and pray."

* * *

><p>Cassandra spent the Christmas holidays with Alex and Connor, as she had done the year before. But this time, Duncan didn't make an unannounced visit, and Richie couldn't be there. The twins celebrated their first birthday by gnawing on Christmas cookies while the adults and John ate cake, and the Christmas celebration was subdued, even with Connor's long-ago-adopted daughter, Rachel, in the house. On New Year's Day, Connor stayed close to the telephone, but Duncan didn't call.<p>

"Maybe they don't have telephones in the monastery," Alex suggested, and Connor nodded and silently left the room. "Duncan always calls on Connor's birthday," Alex explained to Cassandra, then followed her husband down the hall.

Cassandra went back to the girls' school after the New Year and resumed her bi-weekly therapy sessions with Jennifer. "You've come a long way, Cassandra," Jennifer told her warmly. "Maybe it's time to start thinking about giving to someone else."

"I—"

"Helping others is one of the best ways to feel better about yourself," Jennifer said calmly. "It's part of the therapy process." She took out a brochure labeled "Harps for Healing" and handed it to Cassandra. "Think about it."

One month later, Cassandra went to the hospital to play her harp in the sickrooms and in the nursery, sharing her music and finding some joy. She'd been a healer, long ago, and Jennifer was right, it was good to be helping again, even in this small way. She went the next week, and the week after that. People seemed glad to see her, smiled when she came and remembered her name. That hadn't happened for a very long time.

Through the cold winter and into the spring, Cassandra continued teaching music and visiting the hospital. She went to the MacLeod farm every weekend to practice sparring with Connor, and to see Alex and the twins. No more word came from Methos. That was best, at least for Cassandra. Last year, back in May, when Cassandra and Jennifer had talked about love, Cassandra had decided to avoid all contact with the man.

"You're too dependent on men's good opinions, Cassandra," Jennifer told her bluntly on that warm spring day, while Cassandra stared out the window at the white lace curtains in the house across the street. "And you ignore your own needs to try to make them like you. When you were Methos's slave, you did everything you could to keep him happy. Then you tried to 'help' Roland for millennia, and two weeks after he died, you were trying to please Connor. And now that Methos has said he 'cared' about you, you're telling me that you love him."

"And I hate him!" Cassandra retorted, swinging around to face Jennifer. "I haven't forgotten what happened. But he did start to care."

"Why is that so important to you?" Jennifer asked. "You've gone thousands of years thinking you meant nothing to him."

Cassandra whirled to look out the window again, blinking back hot, unwanted tears. Thousands of years thinking she meant nothing to him, thousands of years thinking she _was_ nothing. And now to find out it hadn't all been a lie, to know that she had made a difference, that she had changed him somehow, that her whole life hadn't been wasted, that maybe ...

Jennifer's firm voice came from behind her. "Just because a man is kind to you sometimes, doesn't mean he loves you, and it doesn't mean you owe him anything beyond simple kindness in return."

"But he—"

"Methos does not love you now," Jennifer declared. "And he did not love you then. He used you, and he lied to you, and he hurt you, Cassandra. His horse was more important to him than you were." Cassandra angrily brushed away more tears, because of course, Jennifer was right. Methos would never have stood by while Kronos brutalized his horse.

Then Jennifer started to quote from the Christian Bible, from Paul's letters to the people in Corinth. "Love is patient, love is kind. It is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered. Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."

But Cassandra turned around and quoted in return, "Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things."

"Endures death, Cassandra?" Jennifer asked. "Endures years of abuse at the hands of a man who hates you? Endures living as a slave?"

"To be understanding and forgiving, to return good for evil—isn't that what people are supposed to do? To be nurturing and kind, to think more about others than about yourself—isn't that what women are supposed to do?" Cassandra had heard those words all her life, from her father, from her owners, from other women, from men, from story-tellers and priests and kings. She knew they were true.

Jennifer leaned forward, sounding almost exasperated. "Does love always have to mean pain?"

Cassandra stood in front of the window, blinking slowly, trying to remember a life—or a love—without pain. She'd loved her father and her first teacher, the Lady of the Temple, and they had loved her. Cassandra knew that was true. She'd loved her husbands and her children, too, and she'd had friends and lovers over the years—many happy times and many happy lives. But she wasn't the same person she had been all those centuries ago. She could barely even remember that person, and she couldn't remember what that kind of love felt like at all.

Pain, she remembered. Pain was real. Pain was how people showed they cared. If they didn't care, they just walked away. Roland had cared too much, and Methos had cared too little, but both of them had hurt her. Of course, they were Horsemen; they liked to hurt people, so maybe that was part of the reason why. Duncan and Connor cared about her—at least, they said they did, and she could trust them, couldn't she? Shouldn't she? But Connor and Duncan had hurt her, too, in different ways, and the MacLeods were good, honest, decent men. She knew that; everyone said that. She had hurt them, so they were only being fair, and only giving her what she deserved.

Except, why was she supposed to forgive, if they didn't have to do the same? Why could they hurt her, if she wasn't ever supposed to hurt them? Unless ... "I don't know," Cassandra admitted finally, then whispered in shame, "I don't know how to love. I can't remember."

"Good," Jennifer said briskly, and Cassandra looked up in surprise. "You realize that you don't know what love is," Jennifer said, "and you realize that you don't know how to love. So, do you love Methos?"

Cassandra could answer that now. "I don't know."

"Good." Jennifer rose from her chair and joined Cassandra near the window. "I don't think you should have any contact with Methos at all, not until you can answer that question. Not until you know what love is. No letters, no e-mails, no phone calls, no meetings. No presents. Nothing."

Cassandra knew she had to agree, even though it left her with nothing, with no one. Connor was married, and Duncan had disappeared, and besides, she had asked both of them for so much already; she couldn't ask for anything more. And Roland was dead, and Ramirez was dead, and all her children and her husbands and her friends were dead, and she had nothing, she had no one...

But Jennifer had told her not to see Methos, and Cassandra knew she had to obey. "Yes," she agreed, hands down, head down, eyes down.

"Cassandra," Jennifer began, her voice tense, and Cassandra froze into silent submission as Jennifer lifted her hand. But the blow never landed, and Jennifer backed away. "Oh, Cassandra," Jennifer said softly, gently, with the gentleness that Cassandra knew should never be trusted at all. "I didn't mean—," Jennifer began, then half-sighed and half-sobbed before she turned and left the room.

Cassandra remained by the window, staring at nothing. Alone. She should have known this was coming, she should have expected it. They always left. Everyone left. No one cared. And why should they? She didn't deserve anyone's love, anyone's help. She didn't deserve anything. She knew that. She was nothing.

But she couldn't leave, not without permission. She knew that, too. So she waited, with no tears, no anger, no fear—with nothing.

She remained motionless when she heard footsteps approaching, then the rustle of Jennifer's clothes and the squeak of the chair as Jennifer sat down. "Would you like to sit down, Cassandra?" Jennifer's voice asked, and the words were merely polite, not angry, not gentle. "Cassandra?" the voice said again, and she finally dared to move, going over to sit on the edge of the chair, feet on the floor, hands folded in her lap, head down, eyes down, trying to make herself small.

"Cassandra, I'm sorry." Jennifer's voice came from more than an arm's length away, not too close, not within striking distance, not right now. "I didn't mean to be telling you what to do. It's your decision—whether or not to see Methos. It's your choice." More rustles of clothing, and the voice came again, a little closer this time, but still far enough away. "Cassandra? I'm not angry. I am not going to hurt you. I am not going to touch you. You're safe here. You know that; we've talked about this before." The voice became softer, more pleading. "Please talk to me."

Cassandra stared at her hands, at the fingers' slight curves, at the patterns of faint lines and veins. Empty hands now, but they'd held so many things over the years—babies to be cuddled and blood to be bathed in, carded wool and tingling power, fresh-smelling earth and foul-smelling men—and pain. Pain. She remembered now, and she remembered her name—Cassandra. She had a name. She wasn't nothing. She was Cassandra, and Roland was dead, and Kronos was dead, and Methos had changed, and she didn't have to be a slave anymore. She was never going to let anyone tell her what to do anymore. Not even Jennifer. Cassandra uncoiled from her chair and stalked the smaller, weaker, _mortal_ woman. Cassandra could kill her without even a blink. "You don't own me," Cassandra said coldly, staring down at the other woman. "You can't tell me what to do."

"I know that," Jennifer said, staring back, her voice steady and her eyes unflinching, but her trembling hands betrayed her fear. "I wasn't trying to. Think, Cassandra," she urged. "You're transferring your anger and fear of your former owners onto me, and you're over-reacting. I'm not your enemy, Cassandra."

"You're not my friend, either!" Cassandra shot back.

"No," Jennifer agreed, still steady, still seemingly calm. "I'm your therapist, and that's why you're here. You decided you needed help, remember?"

"Help," Cassandra repeated to herself as she slowly backed away. Help. "But you left," Cassandra whispered. "You said you would help me, but then you lied to me and walked away." Just like Methos had lied, and Duncan had lied, and then Kronos had come...

"Cassandra, I didn't lie to you," Jennifer replied, and Cassandra jerked her mind away from that time and back to the now. "I went into the hall for a few minutes because I needed some space to think," Jennifer explained, "but I came back, and I am not going to leave." Cassandra sank down on the chair and huddled into a ball, breathing slowly, trying to find herself again. Jennifer rubbed her hands over her eyes and sighed, then apologized once more. "Cassandra, I'm sorry. Earlier, I was pushing you to do what I thought you should do, instead of letting you come to your own decisions. I was taking your power away from you."

"Why?" Cassandra demanded, because she had to know what this woman was capable of, because she had to know if she could trust.

Jennifer gave a shaky laugh. "Because I'm not perfect? Because I'm not all-wise and all-wonderful?" She leaned forward in her chair, her earnest blue eyes framed by mascara-darkened lashes, Jennifer's one concession to make-up. "Cassandra, people often expect the therapist to have all the answers. It's flattering for the therapist to be looked up to like that, to be idolized. And therapists want to help; that's their job. So sometimes, therapists become _too_ helpful. They give too many answers, instead of letting people find the answers for themselves. That's what I was doing to you. But that just brought up your memories of being forced to do things, and so you put me into the role of one of your owners. First you became submissive, and then—when it was safe to do so—you became angry. I'm not surprised you reacted the way you did."

"I am," Cassandra said, the words coming rapidly, out of control, just like she was out of control. "I shouldn't do that. I should know. I should be able to control it. And you're a woman; I don't usually do that except with men, that's why I wanted a woman therapist, and I haven't done it at—"

"Cassandra," Jennifer broke in. "It happens. I've seen it before. It's not just you."

"I could have killed you!" Cassandra burst out. "Just like—" She dug her nails into her palms, forcing back the words.

"Just like you almost killed Connor," Jennifer supplied, for Cassandra had told her the story three months before.

"Yes," Cassandra whispered, remembering Connor helpless on his knees while she had stood over him with her sword in her hand, the blade slicing ever so slowly into his neck. Connor wasn't the only one Cassandra had almost killed that way, and she still hungered—would always hunger—for that biting sweetness of bloodlust and ultimate control. "You'd be safer if I were dead," Cassandra said bluntly. "Everyone would be."

"But you didn't kill Connor, you didn't kill Methos, you didn't kill Elena, and you didn't kill me," Jennifer pointed out. "You're stronger than you think you are, Cassandra. I haven't given up on you. Don't give up on yourself."

Cassandra snorted with sudden, unbidden laughter, amused and despairing at the same time. "Are you telling me what to do again?"

Jennifer stopped with her mouth half-open, then laughed aloud. "Yes, I suppose I am. I told you I wasn't perfect." She sobered and said, "Cassandra, this transference of emotions will happen again before we're done, and it'll happen with other people, too."

"It already has," Cassandra said, now recognizing her pattern of submissive compliance followed by defiant, murderous rage. She'd done it with Connor and Duncan and Methos, and even Roland, right before he'd died.

"But you know why it happens and you know how to recognize it, so that will make it easier for you to control," Jennifer said, then encouraged her, "You can do this."

"Yes," Cassandra agreed, taking a deep breath. She could do this. She could. And she did have friends, good friends. Elena and Alex were always there for her, and Cassandra could chat with Annie and Gina at the school. She wasn't completely alone, and she didn't need Methos at all. That is, she didn't _want_ to need him.

"You were right, Jennifer," Cassandra agreed, but making the decision on her own. "I won't have any further contact with Methos. He's not good for me right now." Cassandra scheduled her next appointment for two weeks time, then left the office, her head high.

A week later, a postcard arrived from Turkey, saying only "Arrived in one piece. M." Cassandra sat and flipped the postcard back and forth, looking at the picture of the laden donkey on the front and the spare slanted writing on the back. There was no return address. So, she had no way to contact him and tell him to leave her alone. But she would, as soon as she got the chance. Methos could send his trip reports to Connor. Cassandra threw the postcard away, then got back to the business of figuring out love.

The seasons unfurled as the world spun round, and Cassandra wondered and waited and watched. After Connor saw Duncan in the water, she even tried scrying a few times, but saw only echoes of the past, and her dreams were merely dreams. Connor heard nothing more, and the Watchers had no word of Methos, no word of Duncan, no word of anything at all.

So she waited, and she prayed.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Continued in "Blind Faith"<em>**


	6. Blind Faith

_Hope Triumphant I: Healer (part 6)_

* * *

><p><strong>BLIND FAITH<strong>_**  
><strong>_

_**Monday, 19 May 1998**_  
><em><strong>Paris, France<strong>_

On the first anniversary of Richie's death, Joe Dawson went to visit the grave. He hadn't been there since he and Methos had seen the casket buried. The weather had been crummy all winter, and Joe had been busy teaching at the Watcher Academy and getting Le Blues Bar just the way he wanted it, and besides, he didn't want the death to be real. But three weeks ago, the people at the cemetery had notified him that the headstone had finally been put up, and it was spring and it had finally stopped raining, and he didn't have to teach that day and the bar was doing fine. So Joe went.

The headstone shone dark gray in the sunshine, not faded and dull like the others, and the etched letters were black and clear: Richie Ryan, 22 years, Friend. Twenty-two, Joe thought, twenty-two goddamned years, when Richie could have had forever. "I guess it's just you and me, Richie," Joe said, trying to keep his voice steady as he remembered the brash young punk who had become an courageous young man. "I can't believe it's been a year already."

A whole goddamned wasted year. A wasted death. "Wish I could tell you why this happened," Joe said. "You know, make sense of it. But I can't." Nothing made sense any more. "I'm sorry."

"He knows why."

Joe jerked at those words and turned to see the speaker, though he had immediately recognized the voice. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had deigned to stop by. "Well," Joe said, taking in the new look of Duncan MacLeod: the short hair, the T-shirt and blue jeans, the dark sunglasses, the whole damn casual "just out for a stroll" kind of a guy. Like nothing had happened at all. "Welcome back," Joe managed to say, then he turned to look at the headstone again.

"Glad you stayed in Paris," MacLeod said. His voice was casual, too.

"Somebody had to," Joe replied, the words short and clipped. MacLeod came over, and Joe gestured to the grave. "I buried him with his sword. I didn't know what else to put on the headstone." And there'd been no one around to help. "This seemed right."

MacLeod nodded. "Friend ... is good." He nodded again. "Because that's what he was."

Joe had seen MacLeod show more animation discussing a favorite beer. "You know, I have had fifty Watchers beating the bushes looking for you," Joe said, turning on him. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Does it matter?" MacLeod asked, still casual, still cool.

"Yeah!" Joe nearly snarled. "To me it does!" He took another look at MacLeod, hoping to see beyond those mirrored black lenses into those familiar brown eyes, hoping to see the man he'd once known. Nothing. "I thought we were friends," Joe said in bewilderment, trying to keep his voice steady, trying to make sense of it all.

"We are." And then MacLeod announced that he was the champion chosen to defeat Ahriman and save the world, and he asked Joe to make the Watchers give him some help.

Joe stared, unbelieving, then decided to give MacLeod a piece of his mind instead. "You disappear for over a year. No one knows if you're alive, or you're dead. And then you pop up out of nowhere, and you want me to get the Watchers to help you." Joe looked into those sunglasses and got back only a reflection of himself. There wasn't a trace here of the Duncan MacLeod he'd thought he'd known.

Or maybe there was. Maybe this had been the real MacLeod all along. How many times had MacLeod asked him for help? How many times had Joe broken his oath for him, stood up for him, made excuses for him, lied for him, and how many times had MacLeod just up and walked away? "Well, you don't want much, do you," Joe said, disgusted both with MacLeod and with himself, and he started to leave.

MacLeod was still stubborn; that hadn't changed. He followed and said earnestly, "When Richie died, I wanted to die. Then I realized that if his death was to mean anything, I had to survive! I had to understand what happened; I had to believe what happened. This thing is evil, Joe. And I'm the only thing that can stop it. And I will stop it. I'm going to find it, and I'm going to destroy it." MacLeod finally took a breath for air. "Will you help me?"

Joe had been counting the number of "I"s in that impassioned monologue. Nine of 'em, with a "me" thrown in at the end. Looked like Methos wasn't the only self-absorbed Immortal around. Not that Methos had been around, either. They'd all up and disappeared. While good ol' Joe Dawson got to wait around and wonder, and then get used again.

"I don't know," Joe told MacLeod, not saying what he really wanted to say, because he was still a Watcher, and because it was still his job to observe and record, whether he liked his Immortal or not.

Joe went to his bar, deserted and silent in the middle of the day. He played some blues and he drank some beer, and as he cooled down, he thought about what he knew of Duncan MacLeod. A good man, an honest man, loyal and brave and stubborn to a fault, but never self-centered. Never one to use people and then just walk away, never once in over four hundred years. They'd had their differences over the last few years, sure, but they'd been through some rough times.

And Joe knew it couldn't have been easy for Mac to come to Paris and see Richie's grave, to see the name of his student and his friend carved in cold stone. Hell, the sight made Joe go all teary-eyed, and he hadn't been the one to kill Richie. MacLeod's cool casualness was just a defense against—or a cover for—overwhelming grief. Just like Joe's anger had been a cover for hurt and worry and fear. Joe could see that now.

Joe didn't believe in the demon, but he did believe in MacLeod. MacLeod was a friend, just like Richie had been, and Joe wasn't about to walk out on a friend when he needed help. Joe put away his guitar and went to talk to MacLeod.

* * *

><p><strong>AVATAR<br>**

Duncan MacLeod went to Holy Ground, but found no refuge there. Father Beaufort was sitting slumped on the floor in front of the altar, a razor poised above his wrist, the demon in the shadows by his side. "You can't do this," Duncan said steadily to the aged priest, hoping to reach him in time.

"Get out," Father Beaufort ordered and then, as Duncan continued to advance down the nave, added in desperation, "I said get out! I have to do this. I've lost my brother, I've lost God, I've lost my life."

Duncan kept walking, then knelt down on the other side of the priest. "Why?" Duncan asked. "Because he says so?" He glanced at the demon, a thing of evil, hidden now in the guise of a troubled man, Father Beaufort's brother, Jackie, who had committed suicide two months ago. "This is not your brother," Duncan said, certain of that, as he had not been certain of his own vision of Horton a year ago. Duncan had learned so much since then, both with Dawson's help these last few weeks, and during the last year, alone in the monastery, mourning Richie's death. "Jackie's dead," Duncan said earnestly. "Whatever he needs, you can't give him." Just as Duncan couldn't give anything to Richie, not anymore.

Father Beaufort looked down, his lips tightening, his fingers tightening around the sharp blade, too, and Duncan tried again, speaking the truth and offering the priest a lifeline of hope. "It doesn't matter if you've lost your faith in God. Because He hasn't lost his faith in you." Duncan waited, holding his breath, remembering his own friends who hadn't lost faith in him, no matter what he'd done: Connor, Darius, Amanda, Methos, Joe ...

Richie.

Duncan exhaled slowly, reaching for that lifeline himself. Hope and forgiveness and faith, all plaited together to form a single strong thread, the path to follow out of the maze of despair. "Give me the knife," Duncan said softly to the priest. "Give it to me." The demon looked on, unmoving, and Duncan said it one more time. "Give it to me."

Slowly, Father Beaufort lifted the deadly blade and laid it in Duncan's hand, choosing life, choosing hope. The demon faded away into the shadows, into nothingness, and Father Beaufort laid his head against Duncan and wept. Duncan held him close and let him cry, but finally Duncan helped the priest to his feet and led him to a pew. "I would have damned myself, if it wasn't for you," Father Beaufort said, head down and hands clasped, still despairing.

"No!" Duncan said strongly, kneeling before him. "That's what it wants you to think. The only power it has over us is the power we give it."

"Duncan, everything I have read says it is useless to fight it, that it feeds on our hate and fear, that its very presence breeds hate and fear." Father Beaufort shook his head in confusion. "How can we destroy something that thrives on destruction?"

How indeed. "Peace, Father," Duncan said softly, finally seeing the missing fourth strand. Peace. He stood, pacing, remembering what he had read of the words of Zarathustra. "'Never will I renounce the good mind.' It was there all the time." He turned and spoke to Father Beaufort again. "In peace."

"What?" the priest asked, still confused, but Duncan didn't think he could explain it, not even to himself.

"I have to do this by myself," Duncan told Father Beaufort, for he was certain of that one thing. He gently pulled the other man to his feet and told him, "You have to leave now. I need to know that you'll be safe."

Father Beaufort didn't move. "Is there anything that I can do?"

"Pray."

After Father Beaufort had left the church, Duncan walked to the altar, then laid his coat aside. Finally, Duncan knew what he had to do, and he knew what he could not do. No sword, no fighting—he stood on Holy Ground. No wavering, no fear—his mind must be clear. No hate, no anger—his heart must be pure.

Pure, purified, purged. Purged and purgatory. Purgatory, Heaven, and Hell. He must be open to all, with a purity of purpose that could encompass the universe—and more. Duncan began the meditation kata, let it carry him deep within. Flickers of white lightning led him on the path, let him enter the dark recesses of his soul, while the four shining strands trailed behind him to show the way home.

In the caverns of the Darkness, the wizened man was waiting for him, as he always waited, watching and aware. "Good," he said. "You're back."

Duncan had never left. How could one leave oneself? Duncan said calmly, "You've lost."

"Let's play," the other suggested, a grin upon his face. "How about guns?" A gun appeared, the metal cold within Duncan's hand. Duncan lifted it, saw the fine detailing, hefted the weight of it, felt the steel. Real, solid, deadly, true.

"Yes, yes!" the other said gleefully and spread his arms wide. "Shoot me, Duncan!"

False. Not real. And death had no power here. Life is death and death is life, for there is no ending and no beginning. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen. Shalom. Peace. Duncan dropped the gun, and it vanished as it hit the ground.

The wizened man lowered his arms. "That's not fair," he complained, then stayed with Duncan as they walked back and forth, a malformed shadow forever near. "How about ..." He laughed in delight, a small cock-crow of triumph. "How about your old friend?"

The katana now, the blade well-known and trusted. Duncan's fingers curved easily around the hilt, unthinkingly balanced the weight of the blade. "Keep your sword with you always," Duncan had told Richie. "Sometimes, it's your only friend." Cold words for a cold world, to replace a loving heart with deadly steel. Richie Ryan, friend. Richie Ryan, rest in peace.

Duncan thrust the point of the blade into the ground, and the weapon disappeared. "Game's over," Duncan told his shadow. "Your time is up." Duncan began the meditation moves again, moving deeper, darker, down.

"No gun, no sword," the small man sneered. "How are you going to fight me?"

No more fighting. No more death. No more tears. Forgiveness, faith, hope ... peace. Duncan released the air in his lungs, released everything and let it go.

"Are you going to huff and puff and blow my house down?" the small one challenged.

No more challenges. No more duels. How can you fight yourself? "I become one with everything," Duncan intoned, breathing in and breathing out, flowing and ebbing, releasing and accepting. "I become one with you."

"Too bad you didn't think of that before you killed Richie!" the other said viciously.

Richie Ryan, friend. Richie Ryan, a part of himself, a part of his soul. All are bound together, woven into one, and there are no boundaries, no endings, just different forms of life—and death. "I become everything," Duncan realized, and he was everything, love and hate, the wolf and the lamb, the sacrifice and the slaughterer. He spiraled into that universe of oneness and lost himself among the stars. "Therefore, I become nothing."

"Come on, be a man!" a distant voice called.

A child, and a man. Flames licking round him, a quickening of death, triple crescents at his feet and a sword held high in offering. Good must always triumph over evil, but Shiva is both creator and destroyer, and to light a candle is to cast a shadow. Light cannot exist with darkness. Duncan saw the truth and the necessity of it now. Darkness and Light were both his paths. He was everything, he was nothing. "Therefore, you are nothing. Without my anger, you have no substance." No anger, no revenge—but peace.

"Without my pride, you have no form." No pride, no self—but unity with the universe, with the One Word, the Word of God, and one of God's names is Peace. "Without my hate, you have no being." No hate—but compassion and forgiveness, and love.

Duncan opened his eyes and saw the gray solid stone of the church about him. The wizened man was gone.

But Horton was still there. His voice came from the shadows, a reasoned, judicious, eminently rational man. "Maybe we can find something a little more impressive, MacLeod."

Duncan plunged into the caverns again, the Darkness once more. Kronos this time, a warrior to challenge him, a worthy opponent, a mirror image of his soul. The Horseman came forth swinging, and Duncan swung out of his way. The way of the warrior was the way of the sword, and Duncan was on a different path now. He moved as Kronos moved, and they flowed together in a shadow dance of death, until Duncan stood still and allowed Death to enter his soul, for Death was already there.

One. Life-Death. Death-Life. Everything. Unity. Peace.

Go in peace. Kronos and his sword vanished, and Duncan stood there unharmed. He turned to Horton, the demon in its chosen mortal guise. Duncan settled himself comfortably to the floor, propping his arms on one knee, and said, "Isn't it time for you to leave?"

"I've only just begun," Ahriman-Horton hissed in a hungry agony of hate.

Duncan shook his head. "You have no place here." Nothing here to feed that rage.

"I'm a part of you now," Ahriman-Horton warned, gloating.

Duncan almost smiled to himself, finally hearing the truth he had so often been told. "You always were."

Ahriman's howling anger flickered into nothingness, blown by winds into everythingness, caught by the web of the universe, an integral part of those shining, shimmering strands. Duncan knelt before the altar, accepting Ahriman into his soul, for Ahriman was already there, as he was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be.

Nothing is ended.

Go in peace.  
>Shalom.<br>Live.  
>Die.<br>Be.

Forever and ever, amen.

* * *

><p><strong>THEY ALSO SERVE<strong>

Joe waited. He was good at that. He'd spent a lot of his life waiting for MacLeod. Earlier today, MacLeod had called on the phone, saying only, "It's over. He's gone. I'll be at the bar later." He'd sounded really tired, and Joe hadn't asked for more.

But now MacLeod was leaning on the bar, and Joe didn't have to wait anymore. "You know, you never did tell me how you beat this bastard," Joe said, as he headed to one of the tables with a beer in his hand. "What did you have to do?"

"Nothing." MacLeod smiled, in a way he hadn't smiled in over a year. He pushed off from the bar and started walking, unable to keep still, moving with his words, the way he always used to do. "There's a thought in the Kabbalah that Armageddon, the ultimate fight between good and evil, will be fought within one soul."

"And yours is the soul," Joe said, sitting down to watch the Immortal and the man, as he'd done so many times before. MacLeod was one of the best, no question. "That's why you're the champion."

"Maybe," MacLeod admitted, seeming a little uncomfortable with the role. "All I know is that evil exists in all of us, Joe. When we deny that, we give evil power."

Joe didn't quite see how that worked. Who'd want to accept evil?

MacLeod came back to sit down and explain. "Ahriman said it himself: His greatest trick was to convince the world that he didn't exist." MacLeod leaned back in his chair. "Well, he does. He exists in all of us. And once I accepted that, I was able to defeat him."

Joe shook his head, wondering how he was going to write this one up for the Chronicles. "Armageddon in Darius's church." Now there was a title. Joe sat up, remembering the priest Ahriman had been tormenting. "How's Father Beaufort doing?"

"Finding his faith," MacLeod answered. Joe poured MacLeod a drink, the way he used to do, and MacLeod reached for it and raised his glass. "To faith."

Joe picked up his own glass and proposed another toast. "To the champion." Damn, it was good to have MacLeod—and everything else—back to normal again. They clinked their glasses and drank, and the beer was smooth going down.

MacLeod didn't seem to find his drink quite so smooth, but then he had said he hadn't had a drink in over a year. "It's been a while," he commented, with a grimace and half a smile. He stood, reaching for his coat. "Well, I better get going. I'm going to go talk to Connor; I'll be back in a couple of days." He slapped Joe on the back, a friendly gesture of concern. "Take care, huh?"

"Yeah," Joe agreed with a smile, but then he remembered something else. "Hey, will you, uh—will you do me a favor?" Joe stood and reached behind him for the sword, then offered it to MacLeod. "Will you please take this?"

Maybe not quite back to normal. MacLeod just stood there, his hands in the pockets of his coat, looking down at the sword. Joe offered it again. "Just so I know you'll be here when I get back." Still no response, and Joe tried once more, pushing away the fear that something was permanently wrong with his friend. "Come on," Joe urged. "You have avenged Richie's death. Mac, you've defeated Ahriman. You're still Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod." Joe held up the katana, that beautiful deadly blade. "Take it. Please," Joe said, then nearly bit his tongue off when he realized where he'd heard those exact same words before: MacLeod, kneeling by Richie's headless body with the katana in his hands, begging Methos to take his head with his own sword.

Methos hadn't accepted the sword then, but MacLeod accepted it now, and Joe breathed a silent sigh of relief as MacLeod took the weapon from his hands. "Thanks, Joe," MacLeod said, and those two words said it all.

MacLeod was almost to the door when Joe remembered one more thing. "Hey, Mac," he called, and MacLeod turned around. "Have you heard anything from Methos?" Joe asked, but MacLeod just shook his head slowly and went on his way.

"Methos, where are you?" Joe muttered, and he sat down to finish his beer by himself.

* * *

><p><strong>HOMELAND<strong>

**_Glenfinnan, Scotland_  
><strong>

"Nice haircut," Connor observed when Duncan got off the train in Glenfinnan, and Duncan flashed him a grin, his teeth very white in contrast to his black sunglasses. Connor reached him, and they took each other by the upper arms in a tight warrior's grip, then fell into a closer embrace, holding fast. Connor pulled back and examined his kinsman, but he didn't let go. Duncan's loose outfit of beige linen covered a frame that seemed leaner, yet still finely-strung and tightly muscled; Connor could feel that under his hands. The short-cropped hair made Duncan's face seem thinner, too, but even that didn't account for the sharp lines of the cheekbones or the tightness around the mouth. And the eyes—Duncan's usually so-expressive eyes—were hidden, protected from the glare of the late afternoon sun, and secure from Connor's gaze.

"Good to see you," Connor told Duncan, giving his arms a final squeeze and letting go.

"Good to be here," Duncan said, with enough enthusiasm and relief to change the words from trite to true. Duncan shouldered his duffel bag, and Connor led the way through the scattered groups of tourists and travelers to his car.

"Food?" Connor suggested. "Or exercise?" A morning sitting in an airplane plus an afternoon sitting in a train often made both sound attractive.

"Oh, I get a choice?" Duncan asked, more challenge than question, and Connor knew why. The last time Duncan had come to visit in the summer, Connor had immediately challenged Duncan to go running, a grueling trek up a steep Highland hill. Connor had run Duncan into the ground.

They were past that now. "Your choice," Connor said, unlocking the car door and opening it wide.

"What about Alex?" Duncan asked as he put his bag in the back. "Shouldn't we be getting to the farm?"

"She suggested we talk before we got there, so we wouldn't be interrupted." Connor knew she had another reason; Alex was tired of having her home being an Immortal battleground, whether with swords or with words. "So, walk? Or eat?"

"Walk," Duncan answered. "I'm not that hungry."

Connor nodded and locked his car, and he and Duncan went past the many-gabled Prince's House Hotel and headed up the glen, away from town. Other hikers were out and about, taking advantage of the warm weather and the long hours of summer sunshine, and neither Connor nor Duncan spoke as they passed under the steam train viaduct, the concrete arches high above their heads. When they reached the bothy at Corriehoile, they turned off the road, crossed the river, and climbed up the lower slopes of Ben An Tuim. Not as many people chose this more strenuous route, and in the solitude of the forest, Connor finally broke the silence between them. "You had us going for a while, Duncan." Then, wanting to be more open, more honest, he added, "I was worried."

"I know," Duncan said quietly. "I'm sorry. But it was like the Dark Quickening all over again. I couldn't contact you; I was afraid of what might happen to you, or to your family."

"Yeah," Connor said, nodding. "But we looked for you."

Duncan managed a tight smile and a half-nod. "Probably best you didn't find me," he said. "The demon went after anyone who tried to help me, and in the end, I needed to face it alone."

Connor grunted and kept walking. So, Cassandra had been right about that. Witch, indeed. "Where did you go?"

"Holy Ground, in Malaysia. Quiet, peaceful. Safe."

"An oil lamp on a low table, an empty room?"

Duncan's stride faltered as he shot Connor a quick glance. "How did you know?"

Connor shrugged. Duncan wasn't the only one to have connections with the supernatural. "As I said, we looked. Cassandra knows a few things." They hiked in silence again until they came to an opening in the trees, then they stopped to look at the narrow ribbon of Loch Shiel, its water blue and gleaming, the sand golden in the sun. "I guess I was wrong," Connor said casually.

Duncan turned to him as if surprised, but the sunglasses still hid his eyes, and Connor wasn't sure. "What do you mean?" Duncan asked.

"A year and a half ago, on your birthday," Connor explained. "I told you that you weren't about to save the world, even though your mother's name was Mary and you were born in a stable." Duncan gave a snort of laughter, but then looked at the loch again, so Connor persisted, "How does it feel? To have saved the world?"

"Now? Unreal, but a relief." Duncan reached down and picked up a pebble, tossed it from hand to hand. "Then? Unreal, but scary as hell." He threw the pebble away, down the hill, and it clattered against a pine. "It was hell," he said, and the words were soft and low.

"What happened?" Connor asked him, needing to hear as much as Duncan needed to talk.

Duncan kept staring out at the loch, never once meeting his eyes, and told him in quiet tones of temptations to try the soul, of dwelling in the darkness with no hope of the light, and finally of vanquishing the evil without by accepting the evil within. He didn't speak of Richie at all, not here, not this near to town where the occasional cyclist might come riding by. Connor knew that would come later, tomorrow maybe, or the day after that, when they went running among the hills of the Highlands, when they were surrounded by the solitude of wind and stone.

"So, that's it?" Connor asked, when Duncan had finished his tale. "You did nothing, and the demon went away?"

"I faced him," Duncan said, facing Connor now. "I saw him for what he was, and I saw myself for what I was, and I faced him unafraid."

"Completely unafraid?" Connor inquired with a lifted eyebrow, and Duncan shook his head and laughed aloud, sounding almost unchanged.

"Not completely, no," Duncan answered, still smiling. "But not angry, not full of hate. It needed peace. And the demon didn't go away, Connor. He's still around; he always will be. In all of us."

Connor already had his own demons inside him; he didn't need another. But maybe that was the reason Duncan had been chosen for this fight—and for other fights as well. God knew there were more than enough battles out there, and Connor had won his share. He was glad to have a comrade-in-arms he could trust—and love. He looked upon his former student with pride, taking satisfaction in a job well-done. "Lot of prophecies about you, Duncan," Connor observed.

"I know," Duncan said shortly, and he turned and started walking again. "How's Cassandra?" he asked, as they headed into the trees.

"Better than she was last Christmas," Connor replied, which wasn't really saying a lot. Cassandra had been a walking time-bomb back then, dissolving into tears or exploding into rages nearly every day. "She comes over to visit with Alex and play with the twins almost every weekend, and she hasn't lost her temper in months," Connor added, to give Duncan a better idea of her progress. "I told her you were back."

"Thanks," Duncan said, another short reply. He lengthened his stride and picked up the pace.

Connor lagged behind, wondering why Duncan didn't want to see Cassandra. But it was just as well; Connor knew Cassandra wouldn't want to see Duncan either, not right now. When Connor caught up to him, Duncan said quietly, as if to make up for his earlier abruptness, "I'm glad to hear Cassandra's not so touchy anymore."

"She's getting there," Connor agreed, but he wouldn't have used that word to describe her, not after what had happened two months before.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The MacLeod Farm<strong>_  
><em><strong>4 April 1998<strong>_

Cassandra ended up on the floor during their weekly sparring bout, and Connor made the mistake of saying, "Give me your hand," as he reached down to help pull her to her feet. She gave him her hand, all right, but she didn't move after that, just sat there, her hand limp in his, her eyes empty, waiting for him to break her fingers one by one, waiting for pain. Connor cursed under his breath and dropped her hand immediately, then turned away to let her get to her feet by herself.

She never touched anyone, and she never let anyone touch her. "I can't," she told him later that day by the pasture fence, when she finally came back after hours of running in the hills. "To touch someone and remember being forced to touch them, being forced to—" She closed her eyes and calmed herself. "And to have someone's hands on me, to wonder when and where it's going to start to hurt ..." She shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. "I can't."

"I've held you before," Connor protested. "A year and a half ago, at Christmas. You said you wanted me to." She had also said she wanted him.

"I did!" she said, her eyes wide in pleading and bright with tears. "I wasn't lying to you, Connor. I won't lie to you anymore."

Connor stopped, confused. "I thought the therapy was helping."

"Oh, it is," she told him. "But, Connor, I'd buried centuries of memories just so I could function. Barely function," she admitted with a bitter smile. "Now, I'm working through the memories, trying to deal with them. I'm peeling away scar tissue so I can try to heal completely, and it hurts. And it's going to get worse before it gets better. A lot worse." She shook her head and straightened, dropped her arms to her sides. "I've decided not to spar with you anymore, Connor," she announced.

"You need to practice with a sword."

"Why?" she asked simply, and Connor couldn't even answer that, just looked at her, dumbfounded. "I've survived centuries without one," she said calmly, "and I live on Holy Ground. Sparring isn't good for me right now. I can't control the flashbacks around you, and fighting with swords makes me angry and afraid. And it hurts. I have enough pain in my life."

"Losing your head would hurt, too," he retorted, but she didn't answer, just shook her head stubbornly and walked away. Connor followed, but after an hour of trying to convince her, he gave up. They didn't spar again, and he didn't think she even bothered to carry her sword. Not that he would know for certain; he hardly ever saw her. For the next few weeks, she always seemed to be on her way out whenever Connor came in. He finally caught up to her in the living room. "Are you avoiding me?" he asked bluntly.

"Yes," she replied, equally blunt. "It's safer that way."

Connor didn't ask for details. Later that evening, as they got ready for bed, Alex told him not to take it personally. "Cassandra just needs some time away from men," Alex said, brushing her golden hair. "All men. She's avoiding John, too."

Connor stopped undressing, one sock in his hand. "John?" The boy wasn't even fifteen.

"She says she's not comfortable with the way he looks at her." Alex lifted delicately arched eyebrows. "And you know how he looks at her."

Connor knew. John was almost fifteen. Connor shrugged and took off his other sock, deciding to avoid Cassandra in return. She'd get over it, in time.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Glenfinnan, Scotland<strong>_  
><em><strong>7 June 1998<strong>_

Cassandra hadn't gotten over it yet, but it had only been a month or so. Connor stepped to the edge of the forest path to let a trio of cyclists go by, then kept hiking. He and Duncan skirted the summit, pausing now and again to look at the magnificent views of Loch Shiel, then went downhill, coming out near the viaduct once more. "Ready to eat?" Connor asked when they got back to Glenfinnan, but Duncan only shrugged.

"Not really. Haven't had much of an appetite lately."

No wonder Duncan looked thinner. "Well, I'm hungry," Connor declared and led the way to Flora's restaurant in the hotel. As they entered the dimly-lit room, Duncan finally took off his sunglasses, just as Connor had planned. They took chairs by the fireplace, and Connor ordered his selection for the four-course meal: mousseline of trout, a small portion of haggis with oatcakes, supreme of duck, then coffee and cranachan for dessert. "Sure you don't want anything?" he asked Duncan, and when Duncan hesitated, Connor added grandly, "I'm buying."

Duncan's eyes lit up with merry teasing, just as they had always done, and the somber darkness in them disappeared. "In that case, I'll have the terrine of venison, the sorbet, the panfried breasts of pheasant and pigeon, and for dessert ..." He studied the menu, then smiled up at the waitress, who enthusiastically smiled back and stood up straighter as she took a deep breath, adding to the display of her not-inconsiderable charms. "Plum tart, please," Duncan said, looking into her eyes, and the words on his tongue were like honey, dark and dripping from the comb.

"Plum tart," she repeated, breathless, but she didn't bother to write the order down. Connor had no doubt she'd remember those two words very well.

"No haggis?" Connor inquired as he folded his menu.

"Thought I'd steal some of yours," Duncan replied with a grin, handing the menu to the waitress and then smiling at her again with all his usual charm. "And may I see a wine list, please?"

After dinner, they went to the hotel lounge for a drink. "So, how'd you hear about it?" Duncan asked, leaning back in his chair.

Connor spoke quietly, mindful of the people over at the bar. "Methos. He went to Cassandra, thinking you might have gone to her."

"I thought about asking her." Duncan sipped at his whisky and shook his head. "But it wouldn't have helped."

"Methos said he was going to Turkey, to look for some information there. Did you hear from him?" Connor asked.

"No," Duncan said softly, and Connor saw him swallow hard. This time the shadows in Duncan's eyes remained. "Not a word."

Connor leaned back in his own chair and reached for his drink. With Duncan returned and the demon vanquished, most of Connor's questions had been answered, but a bothersome one remained, and he could tell it bothered Duncan, too.

What had happened to Methos?

* * *

><p><em><strong>Continued in "Counterfeit"<strong>_


	7. Counterfeit

_Hope Triumphant I: Healer (part 7)_

* * *

><p><strong>COUNTERFEIT <strong>

_**Sunday, 8 June 1998  
>By the Ruins of Babylon<strong>_

Methos was dead.

He revived slowly, but he didn't move or open his eyes. His tongue felt thick, with a furry quality he didn't want to think about, and grit rasped against his cheek. The sun shot through his eyelids, seared its way to the back of his brain. Methos carefully opened his left eye the merest slit, then waited for the glaring pain to subside. His vision cleared to let him see mud, baked to a white-salted crackling finish, stretching in a great plain to the distant, barren hills beyond. No trees, no bushes, not a tinge of green.

He closed his eye and considered his body. All his fingers and toes were present and accounted for, each wiggled on command. He could feel more blistered mud beneath his knees and hands, and on his feet and arms, but his torso was covered, ragged shirt and pants. He ached all over, as if he'd been beaten with sticks, his head hurt, he was exhausted, his lips were cracked, and he thought he might just die of thirst all over again.

In short, he felt like death warmed over. A semi-hysterical giggle bubbled up within him, forced apart his lips and made them bleed. He was Death warmed over, baked to a crisp and hung out to dry.

Methos painfully scrabbled to his hands and knees, then sat back on his heels. Where the hell was he? And how had he gotten here? What day was it? What year?

What century?

It was evening when Methos found a village, a miserable collection of mud-brick huts along the reed-choked trickle of water that passed for a river around here. Methos knew where he was now, and he knew when. The jets overhead and the radio in the headman's hut said twentieth century. The crackling salt plains and crumbled piles of mud said Babylon, ruined remnants of once-fertile fields and once-thriving towns.

Methos had lived here in Mesopotamia, the land between the rivers, for centuries. He'd been a statesman in Ur and a scribe in Nippur, a farmer in this village, a craftsman in that, a merchant traveling from town to town. He'd married, raised children, made love. He'd built houses and dug irrigation ditches, made boats to fish in and carried bricks for the temples of the gods, ziggurats towering over the plain. He remembered it all from three thousand years ago, and he remembered it from three days ago, too. He remembered it all.

* * *

><p><em><strong>One Year Earlier<strong>_

After he left Cassandra's flat, Methos checked in with Joe, but no one anywhere had seen any sign of Duncan MacLeod. Methos sighed in frustration and foreboding and caught the next flight to Istanbul. The journey to the mountains was as he remembered it—uncomfortable, slow, and freezing cold. Thank the gods, it didn't rain.

There'd been a religious settlement here, many years ago. At least he thought he was on the right mountain. After a while, all mountains looked alike. They went up, then went down, they went up, they went down. They went up. Methos sighed and kept climbing, looking for the entrance to the cave.

It took him four days, but finally he found it, a tiny opening in a narrow split of rock. Animal dung and bat droppings covered the floor of the first chamber, but farther in, farther back, were the smoothed walls and level floors of the monks' quarters. And farther still, he found drawings on the walls and writings left in jars. Methos knelt on the floor and huddled into the fleecy lining of his corduroy coat, then pried off the wax covering on the top of the jar to find sheets of vellum, faded yellow and brittle with age. He unrolled one carefully, tried to make sense of the long-forgotten words. Ahriman, Avatar—he could pick those out easily enough. More words here and there ... empty-handed ... open-minded ... a war of the soul.

Methos closed his eyes in relief. This was what MacLeod needed to know. Methos rolled the sheet carefully and reached for the jar, tucked the parchment back in.

"Greetings, Brother."

Methos dropped the jar and sprang to his feet, whirling, reaching for his sword. There'd been no buzz, no footsteps, no sound...

A tall, bearded figure emerged from the shadows, bulky in a cape of fox furs. His face was unmarked, unpainted, save for the scar going down over his right eye. A bronze-bladed knife was at his side, and he carried no sword.

"Kronos?" Methos whispered, but it couldn't be, not him.

"Methos!" Kronos said smiling, his arms held wide, but Methos backed away, shaking his head.

"You died," Methos said, certain of that. "I saw you. I was there." He'd burned Kronos's beheaded body, set the fire, watched the flesh blacken and char.

"Of course, you were!" Kronos agreed. "You killed me, to make me immortal, to make us brothers. I was wondering where you'd gone off to, Methos," he said cheerfully. "You were supposed to met me by the fork in the river five days ago, so we could travel together to the great valley between the two rivers, do some trading in the town of Tilpuk. I was starting to get worried, but I knew I'd find you, eventually." He came closer, his ox-hide boots making no sound on the floor. He picked up a jar and turned it over in his hands. "Find something interesting here?"

"Where's Silas?" Methos asked him. "Where's Caspian?"

"Who?" Kronos set the jar down and looked at him carefully, then came over and laid a hand on Methos's arm—his leather-covered arm—in concern. "Are you all right, Brother?"

Methos looked down at himself, at the ox-hide boots and leather leggings, the tunic of deerskin, the long cloak lined with rabbit-fur. The gas lantern in the corner had become a flaming torch, and his chrome and nylon backpack was a woven bag with leather straps. He rubbed at his face in confusion, found there a heavy beard. "No," he whispered. "No."

"Sit down, Methos," Kronos urged him, and they sank to the floor. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," Methos said. He'd been looking for something, to help someone, someone far away ... MacLeod. Duncan MacLeod. And Ahriman, a demon, a demon who wore Kronos's face, a demon with red eyes. But this was Kronos his brother, Kronos from before the Horsemen days ...

"Too much mountain air," Kronos said decisively, pulling Methos back to his feet with easy strength, then grabbing the bag from the floor. "Let's go."

"No," Methos protested. "I have to help a friend."

"Look, Methos," Kronos said with gentle patience. "You can either stay here, alone, in a cold mountain cave, or you can come with me to the valley and a warm fire."

"A fire," Methos murmured, turning around. That was it. There'd been a fire. Many fires, burning through the years, burning high. And Kronos had died in a fire, burned to death in the raid on Tilpuk that had destroyed his family. Methos remembered, remembered it all. After the raid, Kronos had started killing. That was when the madness had begun.

"Your choice, Methos," Kronos said, and his voice seemed suddenly harder, colder. "Me, or your friend."

Methos turned to his brother, but Kronos was smiling, and Methos saw no coldness, no insanity, no jealousy, no hate. Only concern and love showed in those bright blue eyes. Kronos was like he used to be, long ago. "Your choice," Kronos repeated. "Leave your friend and come with me, so you can change the world. You can change what has yet to be."

Change the past? Methos wondered, his heart leaping with sudden hope. And maybe change the future as well?

"I need you, too," Kronos said, reaching out to him once more.

Yes. Methos knew that was true. Kronos needed him. Methos couldn't fail him, not again. This time, Methos was going to help his son. And this time, there would be no Horsemen, no slaughtering of innocents, no centuries spent drenched in blood. No nightmares to keep children awake at night, no Cassandra, no tens of thousands slain. No bloody, endless, pointless Game. No sentencing his son to a thousand years in the darkness, and then abandoning him to a lifetime of darkness after that. Methos could actually make a difference in the world, do something good for a change. MacLeod would understand that, MacLeod would see. And just this once, MacLeod could manage on his own.

"Come with me, Brother," Kronos urged, and Methos made his choice. He walked with his brother from the darkness into the light of day.

* * *

><p><em><strong>By the Ruins of Babylon<strong>_  
><em><strong>1998<strong>_

And Methos had ended up alone. Had he wandered, mumbling to himself, through mountains and deserts, past guarded borders and checkpoints, while he was imagining traveling south with Kronos? Everyone Methos had met, everything he'd seen, from the tiny villages and the small caravans of laden asses, to the marketplaces awash with music and dust, from the clothes to the languages to the stars in the sky, everything had been as it used to be, long ago. He and Kronos had gone to the town of Tilpuk and wintered there, but when Kronos started paying court to a young widow, Methos insisted they leave town, knowing that if they stayed, Kronos's family would be slaughtered and the Horsemen would be born. Eventually, Kronos had agreed, and they set off for Egypt, while Methos thanked the gods every night for this chance to save his son.

But it had all been a dream. Kronos was dead, beheaded by MacLeod in Bordeaux months before, and the Horsemen had ridden far and wide. Methos knew that now. He'd known it all along, but he hadn't wanted to remember, just as he hadn't wanted to remember what he'd been—a Horseman of the Apocalypse, a white rider bringing death. The past year had evaporated, gone up in a puff of red smoke, leaving only the taste of ashes behind. Ahriman had seduced him, played a trick with lights and mirrors, a deception built on the delight that memory treasures so.

_/ Death, despair, division of families, all entanglements of mankind grow,_  
><em> As that old wandering beggar and these God-hated children know._

Methos squatted with his back against the wall of a mud-brick hut and rested his head on his knees. An old wandering beggar indeed. That's all he was now. And God-hated, too. He'd failed. Utterly, and in many things.

OK, now what? Methos summoned five thousand years of practice and let go of the past so he could look to the future. Time to review the situation. A fellow couldn't be a villain all his life. Methos checked his pockets and found nothing. He didn't have any money or his passport. He didn't even have his sword. Had he left it? In the cave?

And what had happened to MacLeod? To Ahriman? Methos got to his feet and joined the men in their morning prayers, ate breakfast, then started walking. MacLeod needed help. Methos couldn't fail him, not again.

It took Methos a few weeks to get to civilization, find money, find a sword, find some traveling papers, and finally make his way to Paris. When he arrived, he didn't go to MacLeod or Joe right away. Observing from a distance was the safest option. Joe had a regular routine, blues bar in the evenings, sleeping late, probably doing Watcher business in the afternoons. No sense of frantic urgency, no traveling, no red fog. MacLeod was back at the barge, sporting a new look: short hair, beige clothes, sunglasses—a walking advertisement for ... well, for something.

Methos watched for a week. Appearances could be deceiving, as he knew very well, and getting too close to MacLeod could be—and had been—fatally dangerous. But another Immortal got close; a blonde woman came to visit MacLeod, and one morning Methos saw them kissing on the deck.

So, everything was back to normal. MacLeod had triumphed over the demon and found another woman to warm his bed. Joe was playing the blues and writing reports. Methos decided he might as well go back to that mountain and retrieve his favorite sword. MacLeod and the blonde went into the barge, arms around each other, and Methos walked away.

* * *

><p><strong>STUDIES IN LIGHT<strong>

_**September 1998  
>Fort William, Scotland<strong>_

"Hello, Miss Grant," Harriet said cheerily. "It's good to see you again. And don't you look lovely today, in your new dress? Those blue flowers are a pretty color on you."

"Thank you, Nurse Briscoe," Miss Grant replied with a smile, pausing by the desk and resting her harp on the floor. "Did Wendy go home this week?"

"Yes, she did," Harriet answered proudly. "Her parents took her home on Monday. Her weight was up to thirty-two hundred grams, and you know she only weighed half that when she was born two months ago in June." Harriet shook her head, amazed as always by the way things had changed. Why, when she had started her nursing career, nearly forty years ago now, babies that small wouldn't have lasted a day.

Harriet came around the desk to open the door to the nursery for the premature babies, and she and Miss Grant went in. "We only have the three," Harriet said, taking a quick look at each of the tiny bundles in the isolettes against the wall, adjusting the temperature in the last one. "Todd and Lisa are still here, and Iain came in just yesterday. The doctor was surprised by how fast Todd and Lisa have grown this last month. Your harp music helps, of course, and the mothers have been coming in almost every day to massage them."

"Massage?" Miss Grant asked.

"Yes, they've done some studies that show babies grow better when they're touched and held. It's not surprising, really, but these little ones don't get much of it, with all the tubes and wires and all."

Miss Grant nodded as she unzipped her harp from its case, then she took her usual place sitting near the door. Soon the soothing ripples of harp music drifted over the hum and whir of machines. Harriet went back to her station, leaving the door open so she could hear, too. After twenty minutes the music stopped, and a little while later Harriet peeked in. Miss Grant was sitting next to Iain's isolette, reaching through the holes in the clear plastic cover to massage the fragile body with her fingertips. Miss Grant was crying silently, just letting the tears run down her face.

Harriet tsked to herself and shut the door, giving the poor lady some privacy. Such a tragedy, to lose a baby, and Miss Grant's therapist, Mrs. Corans, had said that the husband had died, too. Miss Grant would never hold even the full-term babies, though Harriet had suggested it

"Oh no, I shouldn't, really," Miss Grant had said, but her empty arms had been pressed tight against her body, and her eyes were sad. And yet Miss Grant had come in twice a week for the last six months, to help other people's children grow.

"It's good for her," Mrs. Corans had explained. "She needs to feel she can help somehow, to stop thinking of herself all the time, and she's been alone far too long."

Maybe not too much longer, thought Harriet, setting out the medications for the patients. Such an attractive woman as that wouldn't stay unmarried very long. And then Miss Grant could start a new life for herself, maybe even have another baby, once her grieving was done.

* * *

><p><strong>REUNION<strong>

After Methos found his sword, he decided to go walkabout—visiting Athens, remembering Alexa, thinking of times long ago. He arrived in Paris at the end of October, and on his very first day back in town, whom should he meet but Morgan Walker, an obsessive-compulsive Immortal who was still out for his head, even after nearly two hundred years. Methos decided to go look for some information about the fellow, just to be safe.

He hadn't planned on getting caught.

"Hey!" Joe Dawson yelled as he came into the cluttered store-room/office in the back of Le Blues Bar. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Looking for something," Methos answered, still typing away at Joe's laptop computer and reading the Watcher chronicle for Walker.

"I can see that," Joe snapped. "Where have you been?"

"Oh, here and there," Methos answered, then muttered to himself, "There, mostly." Or rather, mostly _then_, but he didn't think this was a good time to explain.

Joe reached over and shut the computer with a bang. "You are unbelievable."

Methos was doing whatever it took to survive. But Joe didn't want to listen, and he didn't want to help. "Come on," Methos protested. "You'd do it for MacLeod!"

"Well, you know, I know MacLeod," Joe said, as slowly and as carefully as if he were explaining one plus one to a simpleton. "You see, I know who he is. I know _what_ he is." Joe gave Methos the once-over and said, "As far as you're concerned..." Joe snorted in disgust and looked away.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Methos asked quietly, but he knew damn well. Betrayer, liar, murderer, Immortal, Horseman—Methos had been many things, and Joe didn't want to know him at all. Not anymore. Joe and he had known each other for years as fellow Watchers, and Methos had saved Joe's life after Joe had been shot during the Galati mess. All those late nights of conversation and companionship, all those years of shared laughter and shared pain—and none of it mattered a damn.

"Look, let's make this real simple," Joe said, explaining things again. "I'm a Watcher. You're an Immortal. It's not my job to make your life easier."

"Your Watcher _oath_?" Methos said, not believing Joe would dare to offer such an inane excuse. The man didn't even have the guts to come right out and say it. Well, fine. Maybe Joe should see just what that Watcher oath was good for. "Oh, yeah," Methos agreed, oozing unctuousness. "Heaven forbid that you'd get involved with an Immortal." The last word came out tainted with filth.

Methos stepped a little closer, got right in Joe's face. "That would compromise your precious ethics, wouldn't it?" Joe's jaw was clenched tight, and Methos let loose another barb. "Oh, providing, of course, that it's possible to do that with a hypocrite."

That did it. "Get out," Joe growled, low and deadly, and Methos gave a sniff of uncaring laughter and sauntered away. It was over. They were through.

Methos had done this before.

But Joe came to talk later that afternoon, when Methos was throwing his bag into the back of his car, getting ready to go to the airport. And this time, Methos and his friend ended up working together, instead of fighting some more. They set out to find Walker, even enjoyed each other's company. Methos hadn't realized how much he'd missed Joe over the last year and a half. After Methos took Walker's head that evening, he and Joe found rooms for the night in a hotel, and in the morning they went back to Paris.

"So, what happened with that Ahriman thing?" Methos asked on the drive.

Joe considered him sourly for a moment but finally answered. "MacLeod faced it, back in June."

And Methos had woken up in a desert back in June. At the stroke of midnight, the magic spell will be broken, and Cinderella has to leave the ball. The coach becomes a pumpkin, the horses go back to being mice. Everything returns to what it used to be, with only the memory of the dream left behind.

"But no weapons, no fighting," Joe was saying. "Mac just ... accepted it, somehow, and that took the wind out of its sails."

"Empty hands and open mind," Methos murmured.

"You knew about that?" Joe demanded.

"I found something."

"Gee, nice of you to share it with us," Joe observed, sour again.

"Ahriman paid me a visit right after I found it," Methos said reluctantly. "Offered me something I couldn't refuse."

"Oh, did he?" Joe snarled.

Methos knew where that lethal mix of anger and sarcasm came from. "What did he offer you, Joe?"

Joe turned to stare out the window, and Methos drove two kilometers before Joe spoke. "My legs."

Methos sucked in his breath and nodded slowly. "Bastard."

"So, what was the offer you 'couldn't refuse'?" Joe asked, and the sarcasm was heavier still.

Another kilometer clicked by. "The chance to stop the Horsemen before they began."

"Jesus, Methos," Joe swore, sympathetic now. "That would have meant..."

"No raids, no murders, no thousand years of terror. No Cassandra, no Bordeaux. I spent a year in the past," Methos explained, carefully keeping his attention on the road. "I thought I was with Kronos before the Horsemen started, the way it used to be." The way Kronos used to be—his friend, his brother, his companion of the heart, the one man in all the world who knew him better than he knew himself.

"And you believed that?" Joe asked incredulously.

"It seemed real enough, while it was happening." Or at least, Methos had wanted it to seem real. Oh, he had wanted that to be real!

"Yeah," Joe agreed after a minute. "It did." The two men sat in silence for the rest of the trip.

When Methos dropped Joe off at Le Blues Bar, Joe paused on his way out of the car. "Hey, I almost forgot. We got this great musician tonight. You've got to come and hear her play."

So Methos went back that night to have a few drinks and have a good time. It was working fine until Cassandra walked in the door, a blonde woman by her side. "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into yours," Methos muttered to Joe.

"What?" Joe said, looking up from some paperwork and focusing on the women near the door. Cassandra had already focused on them. Joe let out a low whistle, but Methos knew it wasn't just over Cassandra's admittedly stunning dress of tailored russet suede, now being revealed as Cassandra took off her coat. "What's _she_ doing here?" Joe asked.

Methos gestured to the stage, where a long-haired woman in a black miniskirt and blue leather bustier was tuning an electric harp of shimmering blue. "Probably here for the music. Cassandra plays the harp."

"She does?" Joe shook his head. "Never thought she was a musical type. Who's that with her?" Joe asked, as they watched the women make their way through the crowd toward the bar.

Methos took another look at the coolly elegant blonde, dressed in a white silk sheath that shimmered with her every breath. Not as voluptuous as Cassandra, but plenty there to look at, and then to look at again. "Don't know, but it seems we're going to find out." Methos stood as the women arrived.

Cassandra nodded to him, then spoke to Joe. "It's been a while."

"It has," Joe replied non-committally.

Cassandra turned to her friend. "Alex, these are friends of Duncan. This is Joseph Dawson, and—"

"Benjamin Davis," Methos broke in, giving his latest alias and offering Alex his hand. She took it, smiling.

Cassandra continued smoothly, as if Methos hadn't said a word. "And this is Methos."

Alex dropped his hand immediately and stepped back, her deep blue eyes gone cold.

"Cassandra—," Methos protested. Who _hadn't_ she told about him? And what the hell was she doing, using his name in public like that?

She ignored him again and finished the introductions. "Gentlemen, this is Dr. Alexandra Johnson MacLeod." Joe's head jerked at the name, and Cassandra added with a small, satisfied smile, "Her husband is Connor MacLeod."

Well, that explains _that_, thought Methos sourly, wondering if Connor had told anyone else about him. And who had Duncan told? Or Cassandra? Or Joe? And how about the Watchers, or Richie, in those eight months before he had died? Methos swore silently in annoyance. He was going to have to disappear again. Too many people knew he was wasn't a myth.

Joe was turning on the charm for Dr. Alexandra Johnson MacLeod, smiling wide and friendly. "Duncan told me you and Connor bought a farm in Scotland."

"Yes," Alex replied civilly enough, but keeping a wary eye on Methos. "We came to Paris for the weekend on a holiday and to do some early Christmas shopping. Cass and I came here tonight to listen to the jazz harper."

Cass? Methos looked over at Cassandra, and she gave him one sweeping glance that was either decidedly imperious or deliberately provocative. He wasn't quite sure, but the ambiguity was intriguing. Come to think of it, a combination of the two would be even more intriguing. And "Cass," was it? He'd never thought of her as Cass before, but he might start now.

Alex was still talking to Joe. "Connor and Duncan didn't want to hear the music, so they went somewhere else tonight."

"MacLeod's back from London already?" Joe asked with delight, and Methos was glad to hear the news, too. "I mean Duncan, of course," Joe added, with another charming smile.

Alex smiled back, thawing a little, at least toward Joe. "Duncan came over on the train with us this morning," she said.

"I'm surprised you didn't know," Cassandra said to Joe. "You seem to keep such close tabs on him."

"Well, I can't watch everything," Joe said, smiling still, but with more effort than emotion.

"No," she agreed serenely and with smug satisfaction. "You can't."

"Did you come over on the train, too?" Methos asked Cassandra, breaking up that little glaring match.

"No. I've been in Paris for nearly a week."

And she hadn't even called to say hi. "Sightseeing?" Methos asked.

"Shopping."

Methos had a sudden vision of Cassandra descending on a boutique, a sword in one hand and a credit card in the other, clad only in lacy white underwear and high-heeled shoes. He blinked hastily and banished the image before Cassandra noticed his smile. He'd think about it later.

Or maybe he could think about it now. She'd turned to the stage, where the harper had started to play a jazzy tune with the drummer adding a calypso beat. When the song was over, Joe whistled in admiration. "She can do things with that harp that I can't even imagine doing on my guitar."

"You play the guitar?" Cassandra asked. At Joe's bemused nod, she looked him over and shook her head. "I never thought of you as being musical."

Methos spluttered into his beer at the outraged shock on Joe's face. These two certainly didn't know each other very well. "Did you come here tonight for the music, too?" Cassandra asked Joe.

Joe managed a passable imitation of a guppy, opening and closing his mouth a few times. "Yeah," he said finally. "But then I come here almost every night. I own the bar."

"Oh," Cassandra said in surprise, then looked around at the pictures on the walls. "It's a nice place," she said, seemingly sincere.

"Thanks," Joe said dryly.

Methos bit his lip to force away his smile. "So, Dr. Johnson," Methos began, turning on his own charm, "what kind of doctor are you?"

"I'm an archeologist," she replied, still cool, but no longer showing obvious revulsion.

"I've had some training in that field myself," Methos said, perking up. Maybe this night wouldn't be a total disaster after all.

* * *

><p><strong>NO PLACE TO RUN<br>**

The night turned out great, but Alex left before midnight. "I told our babysitter I'd be back at the hotel at twelve," she said, putting on her coat. "And the twins are going to wake me up at dawn."

"Twins?" Methos asked, curious. "How old?"

"Almost two." In response to the glances exchanged between the men, Alex said pointedly, "Connor and I decided to use artificial insemination to add to our family." She buttoned her coat and picked up her purse. "Nice to meet you, Joe ... Benjamin." Joe and Methos half-stood and half-bowed to say goodbye. "Goodnight, Cass," Alex called. "I'll see you next week."

"Goodnight, Alex," Cassandra replied. "See you Saturday."

After Alex left, the conversation lagged. Joe got busy at the bar, and Cassandra listened spellbound to every set the jazz harper played. Methos had another beer and relaxed in his chair. When the place closed, Joe and Cassandra joined the musicians on the stage for some playing of their own. Methos actually saw Cassandra and Joe almost smile at each other once or twice, when the music got really good.

Joe was still playing when Cassandra stood to leave. "Going my way?" Methos asked as she put on her coat.

"I don't know which way you're going," she answered, logically enough. She lifted the silken mass of her hair out of the way of her coat, then let it fall in a shimmering cascade.

"How about something to eat?" he suggested. She considered him for a moment, then nodded. "Goodnight, Joe!" Methos called, and he grinned at the complete disbelief on Joe's face when he saw the two of them leaving together.

"Which way?" Cassandra asked when they got outside.

"My way," Methos answered as he turned to the right. "There's a great place called La Dame Elegante not too far away."

After half a block, Cassandra broke the silence between them. "And how have you been this last year and a half, Methos?" A seemingly innocuous question, but loaded with meaning and sarcasm. Just Cassandra's style.

"Busy," Methos answered, in the same smooth fashion, but he knew Cassandra wouldn't be satisfied with that, and neither was he. "Ahriman paid me a visit."

"You were helping MacLeod," she said, showing no surprise.

Methos nodded, his suspicions of last year confirmed. "What did you know, Cassandra?"

"I knew MacLeod needed to be alone. That's all I knew. Anyone who tried to help him would be eliminated, one way or another."

"So you did nothing," he said. Cassandra stopped walking and merely looked at him, a steady measuring stare quite capable of slicing through titanium. Methos gave it up right then. "Well," he said cheerfully as they started walking again, "you seemed to like the music tonight."

"Oh, yes," she agreed. "Her technique is incredible, and the way she uses the soundbox for a drum really adds to the intensity. I like the harness she has, to hold her harp on her body."

Methos smiled to himself, pleased to see her actually showing enthusiasm for something other than killing him. His smile faded and Cassandra's chatter stopped abruptly when they sensed another Immortal.

"No place to run, no place to hide," Cassandra commented, for the buildings were all close together and the man at the far end of the street had already drawn a sword and was coming near. "Should we go back to the bar where there's a crowd?"

A woman after his own heart. Methos found challenges tedious, and he avoided them whenever possible. "Doesn't look like we'll have time," he observed, for the fellow had started jogging and was only about five meters away. "Do you want to kill him, or should I?" Methos asked, loudly enough for the man to hear. The man stopped where he was, only three meters away now.

Cassandra examined her fingernails, polished and shining on a graceful splayed hand. "Didn't you get the last one?"

"You're right, of course," Methos agreed politely, then bowed to motion her forward. "Ladies first."

"I've always preferred it that way," Cassandra murmured, then focused her attention on the other Immortal. "What do you want?" she asked in English, sounding supremely bored.

"Your head," the man answered in the same language, but with a French accent. He looked at Methos next. "And then his."

"Greedy, isn't he?" Cassandra said to Methos. "Have you met him before?"

"No, don't think so," Methos said, examining the fellow in the yellowish light of the street lamp—about Cassandra's height, light brown hair, stocky build, cavalry saber. "Have we met?" Methos inquired.

"I am Paul Orlin. Who are you?"

Cassandra answered for him. "We are the knights who say ... 'Ni.'"

"What?"

"You heard her: the knights who say 'Ni,'" Methos chimed in, then quoted another line from that movie. "Those who hear us seldom live to tell the tale."

"What is wrong with you people?" Orlin demanded then glared at Cassandra. "I challenged you!"

"Oh, that's right," she said. "But I'm afraid I didn't bring my sword tonight. Steel just doesn't go with suede, you know?" She turned to Methos. "May I borrow your sword?" Methos merely looked at her, a steady measuring stare. "I didn't think so," she said, giving it up right then. "I guess I'll just have to say 'Ni' to him until he runs away."

"To find some shrubbery," Methos said, straight-faced. "Two of them, so we can have a little path running down the middle."

"Look," Orlin broke in, obviously exasperated, waving his sword around, "be quiet and fight."

Cassandra tossed back her hair. "You don't want to fight," she said slowly and distinctly, speaking in French now. "You don't want to use your sword." Orlin's sword wavered, then the point fell to the ground as he blinked in confusion. "Put the sword away," Cassandra commanded, and he did. She walked over to him, almost close enough to touch. "You cannot kill me, Paul," she told him, so softly that Methos had to strain to hear. "You will never try to kill me. C'est vrai?"

"Oui," he agreed, his eyes dull.

"Forget you saw me tonight," Cassandra commanded. "But remember: you will never try to kill me. Now go home, Paul."

"Neat trick, that," Methos commented as he watched Orlin walk back the way he had come.

"It's not a trick," Cassandra corrected. "It's a skill."

"Teachable?" Methos asked.

"Not to you."

So much for that idea, at least right now. He had time. "Don't suppose you could have told him never to kill me, could you?"

"Yes, I could have."

And so much for _that_. But Methos was curious about how often she used this little "skill" of her. "Did you use the Voice on that rapist you killed?"

"Of course. It would have been inefficient for me to try to overpower him physically. And besides," she added with a show of flirtatious insouciance that reminded him of Amanda, "I might have broken a nail."

Methos snorted in surprised amusement and agreement. MacLeod seemed to enjoy going about and smacking people with exotic martial art techniques, but Methos appreciated the efficiency—and safe distance—he got from a gun. The Voice was just another weapon that worked at a distance. "Heard any more about it?"

"Not a word," Cassandra said, walking again.

Methos sauntered by her side. "Got away with it cold, eh?"

She slid him a sidelong glance. "So have you. More than once."

A lot more than once. "And he never had a chance," Methos murmured.

"He had his chance to leave me alone, and he had his chance to be rehabilitated, but he chose to keep raping, and he chose to come after me." She shrugged. "Bad choice."

"I'll say," Methos agreed. Cassandra was not a woman to be trifled with.

Cassandra stopped walking and swung around to face him, eyes glittering cold, apparently taking his comments the wrong way. "My tribe never had a chance, Methos, and we never had a choice, either."

Methos groaned silently and prepared himself for another round of her accusations, deciding to let her have her say one last time. But not after this, he was getting tired of it.

"We had done nothing wrong, and you slaughtered us all," Cassandra began and then she just kept on going, as Methos had known she would do. "You rode down a one-year-old boy who was screaming in terror, and you sliced him in half, Methos. You sent Taliq's head and half his body flying through the air. Then you beheaded his mother and impaled his sister. Then you killed my father. Then you killed me."

"Yes," Methos admitted grimly, because it was all true, every last word, and they both knew it, and there was absolutely nothing he could do. He banished those memories from his mind, and other memories as well. He hadn't always been the one holding the sword. "I did. But I've changed. I don't go around killing innocent people anymore."

"I wasn't killing an innocent, either."

Defensive, wasn't she? Methos decided to find out more. "Rape isn't a capital crime, Cassandra."

"Not here. Not now. But sometimes it has been, and sometimes it hasn't been considered a crime at all. You and I both know the rules change, Methos. Which rules do we live by? Which rules do we enforce?"

Methos shrugged, pretending indifference. "I'm not a policeman. I don't enforce the rules."

Cassandra laughed aloud. "Oh, not _their_ rules, of course. But you do enforce your own. Survive, right? Isn't that your rule? When was the last time you killed someone, Methos?"

About two days ago, Methos realized, remembering that goon of Walker's he had shot at point-blank range. And Morgan Walker himself, of course, but that was just part of the Game. "I find it best to leave the mortals to their own devices," Methos told her, goading her on.

"That's right," she agreed, acid-edged and cutting. "How could I forget? Stand back and watch, that's your other rule."

"MacLeod doesn't get involved with mortal justice, either," Methos pointed out, though that wasn't always strictly true. MacLeod got involved far too often, in Methos's opinion.

"Oh, please," Cassandra retorted. "I've read his chronicles. MacLeod's stopped joining armies, but what about the hired guns he's killed, the thugs, the Hunters, the dictator he tossed out the window, the miscellaneous guards here and there?"

Methos shrugged again, because he knew exactly how angry that would make her, and in anger, truth. "Those are war-like situations, Cassandra."

"Women live their entire lives in a war zone, Methos," she shot back. "Never being safe, never knowing when or where they'll be attacked or raped or killed. And the enemy doesn't wear a uniform; sometimes he's even living in the same house. Most women are completely unarmed, innocent non-combatants who get slaughtered time after time after time."

Well, he'd certainly found one of her buttons, hadn't he? Methos filed the information away for future reference and nodded to her respectfully, encouraging her to continue.

Cassandra finished her tirade with a defiant toss of her hair. "MacLeod has killed to protect others, and so have I." She looked Methos up and down with a sniff of disdain. "You kill only to protect yourself."

"Usually," Methos admitted cheerfully, taking no offense. He could find other ways to protect people when he wanted to, and he always tried to avoid killing mortals or taking Quickenings. It was safer that way, both for him and for everyone else. Once an addict, always an addict, and he never wanted to be a Horseman again. And speaking of Quickenings ... "Did you really forget your sword?" Methos asked, but Cassandra gave him only a steady glare. Right. Next topic. "Still hungry?"

She considered the question—and him—for a moment, then nodded. "Does that place you mentioned have herrings?" she asked as they started walking again.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Continued in "Revenge is Sweet"<em>  
><strong>


	8. Revenge is Sweet

_Hope Triumphant I: Healer (part 8)_

* * *

><p><strong>REVENGE IS SWEET<br>**

_**Paris**_

The restaurant didn't have herrings, but it did have strawberry champagne cheesecake, and Cassandra decided to indulge. She was on holiday in Paris, after all, even if she was staying in the cheapest hostel she could find and buying food in stores instead of eating in fine restaurants like this one. She had managed to find a few outfits on sale, though, including the dress she was wearing tonight, so her trip hadn't been all window shopping.

When the waitress came over, Methos politely waited for Cassandra to order first, then asked for crepes suzette and coffee. Cassandra said nothing as she studied Methos and planned her next move. She was ready for him now, readier than she had been eighteen months ago, when she had been confused enough to imagine feelings of love. Never again.

"And how have you been this last year and a half, Cassandra?" Methos began, with the same words and intonation she had used earlier.

"Busy," she answered smoothly, just as he had done. But she hadn't agreed to go with him tonight so they could chitchat. She had a few questions for the man. "How did the Horsemen break up?"

Methos exhaled through half a smile as he leaned back in his chair, then met her eyes. "I got bored and walked away."

"And what did Kronos say to that?"

"As I recall," Methos said, carefully unfolding his napkin, "he said 'No.'"

"But that time, you didn't obey."

"No," Methos retorted, sharp and cold. Shadows touched his eyes and deepened the hollows under his cheekbones, but then he summoned a casual tone and a sarcastic grin. "We didn't exactly part on the best of terms."

Cassandra considered digging deeper, but decided to leave the obviously disturbing memory alone. Methos could keep all that pain to himself. Next question. "And after you left the Horsemen?"

"I wandered, spent some time in Greece, then the Roman Empire. When that crumbled, eventually I went to Ireland and became a monk."

"You? A monk?"

"A craftsman," Methos expounded. "I worked in stone at first, carving the crosses and building the churches, then I became a metal smith, making gold and silver decorations for the holy books. Not a bad life, especially since chastity wasn't part of the vows at first, and poverty never bothered me much. Obedience now ... that was the tough part."

"I never found obedience to be a problem when I was a nun," Cassandra said and looked him over with a critical eye. "Perhaps you would have benefited from a more thorough teacher."

Methos regarded her levelly, his mouth twitching in either amusement or annoyance. "Perhaps," he agreed blandly. "Why are you asking?"

"You changed," Cassandra said simply. "I want to know how, and when, and why." This was why she was here. She hadn't planned on mentioning the gory past of the Horsemen tonight—and not any night, not ever again. It was over, it was past, it was done. But Methos was just so irritating! Smugly patronizing, sneeringly judgmental—when he'd certainly never given her people a "chance" to live. Arrogant, self-righteous, raping, butchering—

The waitress brought the coffee, and Cassandra forced herself to calmness as she took her time sugaring and stirring. It was over. It was finished. Let it go.

Methos watched the swirls of cream disappear into the blackness of his coffee as he spoke. "I left the Horsemen because I was bored, not because I thought it was wrong. But after a while ... after living with mortals... After I saw the things I cared about—the _people_ I cared about—destroyed, then I realized what I had done." He swallowed, still avoiding her eyes. "What I had been."

Methos finally set down his spoon and looked at her. "But there was nothing I could change, no matter how much I wanted to. No way to make it better, no way to bring anyone back. Not the ones I'd killed, not the ones other people had killed. So I went on. Day after day, year after year. I went on."

As Immortals must always go on. She'd done it herself, many times. But she was here to learn about Methos. Cassandra had heard the regret in his voice and seen the guilt in his eyes, but she needed to know more. "Do you still enjoy killing?"

"Yes," he admitted, a hissing sound between his teeth. "A part of me enjoys it, and I know I could be Death again. I know how easy that would be. But another part of me is sickened by that, so I try not to kill at all. Isn't it the same for you?" he challenged.

"Yes," Cassandra agreed, acknowledging her own lust for power and domination. "I think it's the same for everyone. As long as the enjoyment doesn't overcome the disgust, we don't lose control." The way Methos had lost control for a thousand years, the way she had lost control from time to time over the centuries. They stared at each grimly, then Methos picked up his coffee and Cassandra did the same, each avoiding the other's eyes and taking a moment to regroup. The waitress appeared, bearing the desserts on a small, round tray, and Cassandra waited for her to leave before starting in on the next round of questions. "How did you convince Roland to teach you to resist the Voice?"

Methos sliced off a small piece of his crepe and speared it precisely with his fork, then popped it into his mouth and chewed slowly and thoroughly. "We told him we'd make him immortal if he taught us the Voice. He thought it a fair bargain at the time. Later, when none of us could learn how to use the Voice, only to resist it, we sent him after you, so you could teach us. He never came back."

Cassandra took another bite of her cheesecake, nodding slowly, seeing the familiar pattern. Methos had lied to Roland and used him, then tossed him out the door. Exactly what Methos had done to her. No wonder Roland had hated Methos so much, and no wonder Roland had had so much to prove. Roland had told her that the Horsemen had betrayed him, and that he would make them pay. And eventually, he had. "Did Kronos ever tell you how he found you?" she asked Methos.

"Said he'd heard rumours about the world's oldest man." Methos shrugged and ate the last of one of his crepes. "I know how that happened. A few months before Kronos came, an Immortal had shown up in Seacouver, using my name and pretending to be me."

"Why on earth would anyone want to do that?" Cassandra murmured then smiled complacently at Methos's narrowed eyes. Should she tell him? Roland would have wanted Methos to know, and on some level, so did she. The Horsemen hadn't been all-powerful and all-knowing, and it would do Methos good to realize that. "Kronos may have heard rumours about the other Methos," Cassandra acknowledged, "but did you ever wonder why I was in Seacouver at the same time?"

"Kronos wanted you to find him," Methos replied off-handedly. "He knew you were in town."

Cassandra kept her face serene, the mask she'd worn so often fitting easily, even though she suddenly found it difficult to breathe. Of course, Kronos had wanted her to find him. He'd had his own little plans. She'd been stupid not to see that, and stupider still not to wonder why she'd found Kronos so quickly, after only five months of searching. Of course, she'd been stupid about a lot of things during those days.

But that didn't matter now, and she dismissed all of it from her mind. "Kronos let me find him, yes," she admitted. "But Roland was the one who told me that Kronos was alive, just as Roland was the one who told Kronos that _you_ were alive. Before he died, Roland had arranged for a letter to be sent, telling Kronos exactly where you were, and telling him that both you and I knew MacLeod."

Methos set down his fork and blinked a few times, then shook his head and gave a snort of laughter. "Sneaky little bastard, wasn't he?"

"He took after you," Cassandra said and was rewarded with another dirty look. "You should be proud of your student," she told Methos. "Putting the four of us together was sheer brilliance. Roland knew at least one of us would die, and he didn't particularly care who. He hated us all. I failed him, you and Kronos lied to him and betrayed him, and MacLeod killed him. Getting rid of Silas and Caspian was a bonus, though. I don't think Roland would have expected that."

"And he wouldn't have expected the two of us to be eating dessert together in Paris," Methos retorted, a mocking challenge in his eyes.

"No," Cassandra agreed calmly, while the voices in her mind screamed, "Traitor!" Roland's voice, and her father's voice, and the voices of her people who had been butchered and left to die in the sand. Cassandra ignored them and moved on, as she had to move on. She ignored Methos and savored the next few bites of cheesecake, creamy sweetness on her tongue, then asked, "Why don't you want me dead?"

Methos lifted his eyebrows. "Complaining?"

"Curious. You wanted to save 'your woman' three thousand years ago, but why did you keep me alive two years ago? I was trying to kill you; it would have been prudent for you to eliminate that threat, and you had several chances."

"Believe me, I considered it."

"Believe me, I know." Cassandra asked the question again. "Why don't you want me dead?"

Methos took his time polishing off the last few bites of his crepe, then set down his knife and fork side by side. "I failed with Kronos and Silas—and I've failed with others, too. When it comes to eliminating my former companions, I'd rather bat four hundred than a thousand. I wanted you to have that chance to change."

"The way you did," Cassandra observed, and Methos gave her a nod and a shrug and a seemingly-shy smile. Cassandra ate another bite of cheesecake, thinking of a few other reasons Methos hadn't mentioned—Methos keeping all his options open, Duncan's reaction if Methos _had_ taken her head, Methos being lonely (that excuse of his from Brighton Beach was always and forever true, for every Immortal), and finally, the potential for the Stockholm syndrome to be a double-edged sword. Methos had conditioned her to believe that she loved him, and Methos had done a very good job. She had loved him, worshiped him even, but by loving him, she had conditioned Methos, too. He remembered that love, and he couldn't bring himself to kill her, not easily. Anymore than she could easily kill him. Neatly immobilized, the pair of them, as if they were balanced on the two ends of mile-high teeter-totter, with no way of ever getting down.

"No more questions?" Methos asked, as he pushed his empty plate aside.

"No," Cassandra said, setting down her fork and leaving her dessert half-eaten. She'd had enough.

"Then it's my turn," Methos said and leaned forward, his face serious, his look dark and deep. Cassandra braced herself, mentally and physically, but she still wasn't prepared for his question. "Why is your hair straight now, instead of curly?" Methos asked.

Cassandra stared at him, this man who had killed her and used her, this man who had introduced her to both pleasure and pain, and then accepted her love, this man who intrigued her, this man who knew how to make her laugh. This charming, amusing, deadly, untrustworthy man. She wasn't going to be fooled again. Cassandra allowed him to see a small smile, then answered briefly, "Humidity, enough water to wash it, and a brush instead of a comb. Any more questions?"

"No," Methos answered easily, leaning back in his chair. "I already know everything I need to know about you."

This man who could infuriate her and make her want to kill him slowly with her bare hands. Cassandra kept the smile on her face as she put her hands in her lap and slowly leaned back in her chair, distancing herself from the tempting target of his neck. Methos was watching her through narrowed, curious eyes, and Cassandra realized that the comment had been a test, just his way of seeing just how much she had changed. A small smile played about his lips, the twin to her own. So, not only a test, but payback for her earlier nasty comments, too.

And this hadn't been the first test of the night, had it? She'd put on quite a show for him on the walk here, both with the Voice and her little display of temper after. Maybe he'd even arranged for Paul Orlin to show up, just to see what she'd do. Careful, Cassandra, she thought as she folded her napkin and placed it on the table. This man was never to be trusted.

But he didn't really know everything about her, she consoled herself, and as time went on, he would know even less. He had changed, and now she was changing, too. Two years, Cassandra realized suddenly, two years to the day since she had seen Methos standing in Duncan's dojo, two years and a lifetime ago.

Methos signaled to the waitress for the bill. "My treat," he volunteered, and Cassandra didn't argue with him at all. He owed her.

Outside on the sidewalk, she nodded to him and turned to go. "Goodnight, Cass," Methos called after her cheerily, almost cheekily.

Cassandra stopped and turned back, then examined him with clinical disinterest, starting with his toes and ending with his eyes. Another test, and this one demanded an answer. She took a step toward him, a cold, calculating smile on her lips, and a cold threat in her eyes. "My friends call me Cass, Methos, and I am not stupid enough to believe that you are my friend, or that you will ever be my friend. Nor do I want you as my friend."

Methos shrugged, affecting hurt and disappointment. "We seemed to be getting along. I thought we might—"

"I trust my friends, and I don't trust you," Cassandra broke in, repeating something Connor had once said to her. Methos's act of innocence disappeared and he nodded, his lips tight. "Besides," Cassandra said cheerily, almost cheekily, "if you start using my nickname, then I'll start using the nickname I have for you, and you don't want to be called that, especially not in public." She backed away, not taking her gaze from him. "Goodnight, Methos."

"Goodnight ... Cassandra."

* * *

><p><strong>PRODIGAL SON <strong>

Methos watched Cassandra until she turned the corner and disappeared from sight, then he stretched his arms and rose up on his toes, inhaling deeply of the cold night air. Well, that had been interesting. He was pleased to see she had gained enough self-confidence to stand up for herself when pushed, and yet enough self-control not to lose her temper when deliberately insulted. She'd come a long way these last two years. An intriguingly dangerous woman there, sharply amusing and pleasant to look upon, a challenge in several ways. She wouldn't attack him with a sword, but she knew how to draw blood with words, and she hadn't bored him yet. With enemies like her, who needed friends?

He pirouetted and started walking, wide-awake and invigorated at three in the morning, looking for whatever delights a night in Paris might yet bring. Three hours later, after miles of walking and after observing a cat fight and a taxi full of giggling (and very drunk) college students, after a proposition from a woman and then another proposition from a man, Methos found himself on the quay near MacLeod's barge, just out of sensing range, while the sky lightened to gray.

Well, why not? He hadn't talked to MacLeod since the day Richie had died, over a year and a half ago now. But maybe MacLeod was still asleep, tired from a late night on the town with Connor. Maybe Methos should come back later, or call first. Maybe this wasn't a good idea at all. Methos had turned to leave when MacLeod came up on deck, clad in a gray sweat-suit and sneakers, his shorn hair tousled, instead of in the neat ponytail Methos still half-expected to see. MacLeod stretched, arms wide, empty-handed, then moved slowly into the meditative exercise of tai chi.

Why not? Methos needed some exercise, too. He approached slowly, pausing when the buzz hit. MacLeod looked over and saw him, but didn't break his pose or even nod. Methos walked up the gangway, took off his coat and laid it over a railing, then joined MacLeod in the silent, slow-moving dance.

After they had finished, MacLeod said only, "Coffee?" and Methos nodded and picked up his coat, then followed MacLeod down the short flight of stairs into the barge. The place was nearly empty, with a sterile quality about it, as if MacLeod were a visitor and weren't really living there at all. MacLeod busied himself in the small kitchen area behind the bar, and Methos went to warm himself by the fire, laying his coat on the floor and sprawling next to it, since there were no chairs or couches left in the barge, only some mats and a low table in the middle of the room, plus a bed and a dresser against the far wall. Very Zen. Methos put his hands out to the heat of the fire, flexing his fingers as he watched MacLeod measure the coffee and pour the water. A pre-dawn November morning near the river was bloody cold; Methos would remember that the next time he was attacked by the urge to exercise.

MacLeod handed him a mug of coffee, then sat in full-lotus position on the floor not far away, sitting peacefully and saying nothing, seemingly content to stare at the fire and take the occasional sip from his own steaming mug. They sat in silence, drinking slowly until the coffee was gone, and still MacLeod didn't say a word.

No questions? No glances? No sense of pent-up energy and eagerness to be away? "More coffee?" Methos asked as he stood, and MacLeod nodded and handed him his mug. Methos poured the coffee, wondering if they'd finish off the entire pot before anyone said anything. Both Joe and Cassandra had asked him questions right away, but MacLeod didn't even seem interested.

Or maybe he was waiting for Methos to go first. All right, Methos could be chatty. "So," Methos said, as he gave MacLeod his coffee and then settled back down, "how have you been?"

"Good," MacLeod said, his fingers curled around the warmth of the mug. "You?"

"Good," Methos replied, then offered some bait. "Been doing some traveling." MacLeod didn't even nibble at it, just nodded and kept staring at the fire. Oh, what the hell. Methos charged ahead. "Dawson told me you took care of Ahriman."

"Yeah," MacLeod said, the word clipped off short. "Connor told me you went to Turkey."

"Yeah," Methos replied, in much the same terse way, but he knew he couldn't leave it there. "I, uh, ran into a spot of trouble out there."

"Oh?"

"A new acquaintance of yours who happened to look exactly like an old acquaintance of mine."

"Ahriman came to you as Kronos," MacLeod said, and it wasn't a question. "What did he offer you, Methos?"

Methos set down his coffee in front of the fire. "My heart's desire, what else?"

"You took it," MacLeod said, and this one was half doubting question, half hopeful denial.

"Yes," Methos replied, as he had said "Yes" to MacLeod twice before, admitting to things Methos wished he'd never done. But this time, MacLeod's eyes didn't darken with anger or soften with acceptance. They seemed disappointed, but not surprised, saddened, even pitying. "What do you expect of me, MacLeod?" Methos demanded. "I'm just a guy." But Joe Dawson was just a guy, and Joe Dawson hadn't given in. MacLeod said nothing, merely looked at him with those darkened, damning eyes, and Methos shot to his feet and grabbed his coat, pulling it on as he headed for the stairs.

"Methos!" MacLeod called, then came after him and took him by the arm before Methos could get to the door. "Methos," MacLeod said more softly, his hard grip changing to the solid clasp of friendship as they stood there at the bottom of the stairs. "I know what Ahriman was. I know what he could do. There's no shame in giving in to him."

Easy for MacLeod to say. Methos pulled back slightly, and MacLeod dropped his hand from Methos's arm, but he didn't move away. Methos couldn't face MacLeod anymore, but stared right past him, looking out the closest porthole to the dirty gray water of the Seine. "He said I could go back in time to stop the Horsemen from ever starting," Methos said quietly. "He said I could change it all."

"That was your heart's desire?" MacLeod asked, surprised now.

"Just what do you expect of me, MacLeod?" Methos demanded again. "What do you think I want? More blood? Another ride with the Horsemen? Another thousand years of Death?" Methos reached up in one quick movement and used both hands to slam MacLeod against the wall. "Just what do you think I am?" Methos snarled, pleading and condemning all at the same time.

"My friend," MacLeod answered, and Methos was caught and held fast by those two simple words, and by the knowing acceptance in those eyes.

Methos blinked hard and tried to swallow past the raw tightness of his throat. "Damn you, MacLeod," he swore, then turned and fled up the stairs and out the door, stopping himself at the railing on the deck. He gripped the cold metal in his hands and watched as a forlorn duck tried to make its way upstream, going nowhere against the current. Methos lifted up his eyes, not to the hills, but across the river to the twin towers of Notre Dame, black sentinels against a gray sky. The wind slapped him in the face, bringing the scents of autumn even in the city—wet leaves and wetter clothing, a chill dankness to the air. Damn, it was cold up here, even with his coat on. Methos turned his back on the duck and the cathedral and the river, then flipped up his collar, shielding the nape of his neck from the bitter breeze.

MacLeod joined him on deck, but stood about an arm's length away, looking across the river and leaning his elbows on the rail. "I've been worried about you, Methos. Ahriman killed ... so many. When Connor told me you'd gone to Turkey to try to help, I knew Ahriman must have gone after you. After I faced Ahriman, I waited, hoping ... but then month after month went by, and there was no word from you." MacLeod straightened and turned around, adopting the same pose as Methos, backside against the lower rung of the rail, elbows on the upper. "I thought you were dead."

Methos came up with six snappy comebacks, ranging from viciously sarcastic to outrageously egotistical, but discarded them all in favor of what needed to be said. "I'm sorry. I should have gotten in touch sooner."

MacLeod nodded and shrugged, accepting the apology with no comment, wiping it all away. "So, you said you'd been traveling," he said casually. "Where'd you go?"

"Mind if we continue this inside?" Methos suggested. "I'm freezing my ass off on this railing." MacLeod laughed and led the way back into the warmth of the barge, and as they sat by the fire, Methos told MacLeod of his year in the past. "I got back to Paris by July," Methos concluded, "but you had company, and I didn't want to intrude."

"You're always welcome here," MacLeod told him, and the words were heartfelt and true. "After all," MacLeod said, grinning, "_mi casa es su casa_, right?"

"Right," Methos agreed, grinning in return, as that phrase brought back the very first time he had met MacLeod, two and a half years ago, a lifetime ago. Or maybe it was two lifetimes ago, both his life and MacLeod's. Methos had been the one to say the words then, and it was amazingly good to hear them again now. "Thanks, MacLeod," Methos said, but he just had to ask, with a sly, knowing grin, "Is that offer good when Amanda's in town?"

MacLeod laughed again, throwing his head back in sheer abandonment of joy, the way he used to do. "Even then, but you'd better call first." Methos finished his coffee, now luke-warm, then tried to fight back a ferocious yawn. "You can take a nap here, if you want," MacLeod suggested.

"Nah, I'd like a shower and some clean clothes first," Methos said, catching another whiff of the stale cigarette smoke that clung to his clothes and hair.

"Borrow some of mine," MacLeod offered and went over to the dresser to rummage in a drawer, then tossed a pair of black sweatpants and a white sweater onto the neatly-made bed. "We can talk more when I get back from running."

Methos shuddered. Tai chi was quite enough of a morning workout for him. MacLeod laughed again and jogged his way out of the barge, locking the door behind him. Methos stripped and luxuriated in a hot shower, then dressed in the borrowed clothes and added another log to the fire. He laid down on the coverlet and pulled one-half of it over him, then burrowed into the comfortable warmth of his friend's bed and fell fast asleep.

* * *

><p><strong>THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER<br>**

Connor was still on the quay when he felt the presence of an Immortal, and he kept running and jogged up the gangway of the barge, hoping Duncan would join him in finishing an early morning run. The sun had barely risen, and the air was cold with a hint of rain, a perfect start to a fine autumn day.

Connor waited on deck for Duncan either to join him or open the door and invite him in, but Duncan didn't show. Duncan wouldn't have slept through the Immortal alarm; maybe he was in the shower. Or in bed with that giggly redhead they'd met last night. Connor had gone to his hotel around midnight to meet Alex, but Duncan hadn't been ready to leave.

Or maybe Duncan wasn't here at all. Amanda? Or an enemy? An enemy who might have taken Duncan's head last night and then taken Duncan's wallet and keys and come to ransack his house. Connor decided not to wait anymore. He drew his sword, allowing himself a moment to slide into that cool readiness and total awareness necessary for a battle, then he silently tried the door handle. Locked. Connor took out his key and unlocked the door, then opened the door and cautiously stepped inside the barge, his katana leading the way.

The other Immortal was standing near the door at the far end of the barge, a long-bladed sword in his hands. Connor focused on the weapon first, then took in the rest of the scene—the uncombed hair, the face slightly puffy with sleep, the rumpled bed, and the amused look in the other man's eyes. Connor came down the stairs, his sword still ready in his hand, wondering just what was going on. Duncan didn't walk that side of the street.

At least, Duncan hadn't in the past.

"Connor!" Methos greeted him, immediately laying down his sword on the edge of the bed.

Damned confident of him, thought Connor, but then again, Connor wasn't likely to take Methos's head in Duncan's barge without any provocation, and Methos knew it. And Methos was also about twenty feet away; he'd have plenty of time to pick up his sword again if Connor did decide to attack.

"Looks like it's just the two of us this morning," Methos said cheerfully. "Duncan's gone running; you know how fanatic he is about exercise."

"Yes," Connor agreed, tucking his sword under his coat. "I taught him."

"Yes, of course," Methos murmured, rubbing his hands together and—now that Connor's sword was put away—heading past Connor for the kitchen area. "Coffee? Tea? Or ... a croissant?"

"No."

"Well, I think I could use something hot," Methos said, going around the bar and straight to the cupboard where the coffee was kept. "And Duncan usually likes a cup when he gets back from his morning run."

And just how did Methos know that? And what the hell was he doing here, sleeping in Duncan's bed and puttering around Duncan's kitchen as if he owned the place? Connor walked over and leaned on the bar, then noticed the small stitches on the back of the white sweater Methos was wearing, stitches that Connor's housekeeper, Mrs. MacNabb, had sewn to repair a rip during Duncan's last visit to the Highlands. And what in bloody hell was Methos doing wearing Duncan's clothes?

Methos turned on the coffee pot then joined Connor at the bar, close enough so that Connor caught a whiff of him—fresh soap and shampoo, maybe minty mouthwash, not a hint of sweat. Or sex. Connor relaxed, a little. So, it wasn't—

"Sure I can't tempt you with some fruit?" Methos asked, smiling, then blinked slowly, twice. "It's fresh."

Or maybe it was. Connor straightened and let his gaze wander over Methos, from the bare feet sticking out of the baggy, black sweatpants—also probably Duncan's—to those wide and flirtatious hazel eyes. "No," Connor retorted. Five-thousand-years old didn't count as fresh in Connor's book.

The smile didn't waver as Methos waved his hand about, almost but not quite a limp-wristed flutter. "I'm certain you won't mind if I have a little something. It was a busy night last night, and I find I'm famished." From the bowl of fruit on the shelf, Methos selected—what else?—a banana.

He peeled it slowly and lovingly, then lifted the banana to his mouth, his tongue poised at the tip, only to pause and give Connor a mocking wink before he chomped down and took a huge bite.

Connor snorted in surprise and amusement, finally recognizing the charade for what it was. He inclined his head slightly to Methos, acknowledging the winner of this round. But now it was time for round two. "Where have you been this last year and a half, Methos?"

Methos swallowed the lump of banana. "Traveling." He took another bite.

"Find anything in Turkey?"

Methos shook his head and shrugged, then turned to pour a cup of coffee. Curls of steam rose with the rich scent. "You sure you don't want any?"

"I'll take a cup," Connor agreed, but he came into the kitchen to pour it himself. Methos and he settled on the floor near the low table, since there was nowhere else to sit, except on the bed. "What have you been doing lately?" Connor asked, still pressing the attack.

Methos raised his eyebrows. "Surviving, and minding my own business. You should try it."

"Duncan is my business."

"Duncan," Methos replied, drawling out the word, "is a big boy, and can take of himself."

Usually true, but not always. Not this time. "He needed help," Connor said, "and you weren't around."

"I helped him with Kalas. I helped him out of the Dark Quickening." Methos give him a dismissive glance. "Where were you?"

"Where he could find me," Connor shot back. "Duncan knows I'll always be there for him, if he wants me." Those hazel eyes flickered, and Methos looked away. Round two to Connor, and now to drive that message home. "Duncan and I trust each other," Connor said. "Completely."

"Do you?" Methos murmured. "No secrets? No lies?"

Not anymore, and never again. "No secrets," Connor agreed. "No lies."

Methos blinked and shook his head, his lips twisting into a sad smile, then he looked up with eyes of ancient knowledge and echoing pain. "More precious than rubies," he said softly. "More valuable than gold." He leaned forward, all traces of mockery and play-acting gone. "Don't lose that," he said earnestly. "Don't ever lose that trust between you. You don't want to know what it is to be alone."

Round three to Methos, an unexpected knockout from an unknown man. Connor held his gaze and nodded, beginning to understand why Duncan had accepted Methos as his friend, and why even Cassandra had decided Methos was worth keeping alive. But Connor still wanted to know more. "What happened, Methos?" he asked, but more curious than confrontational. "Why didn't you come back?"

"Cassandra had said Duncan needed to face Ahriman alone." Methos reached for his cup and sipped. "I decided she was right."

"Why?"

"Various reasons," Methos replied easily, then asked pointedly, "Just what did you do to help Duncan against Ahriman?"

Connor had done everything he could think of, and it hadn't made one damn bit of difference. After he had learned Duncan was alive, Connor had left messages for Duncan—on the answering machine, in an email, in a letter—telling Duncan to call if he needed anything, to let Connor know when he got back. But Duncan had asked for nothing, and then he had faced Ahriman alone.

"How about after?" Connor asked, moving on.

Methos exhaled gustily. "It's only been a few months, barely a blink."

"It seemed long to Duncan," Connor pointed out.

"I know," Methos admitted, picking at a loose thread on the cuff of his—of Duncan's—sweater. "We talked about it this morning. I apologized, all right?"

"If it's all right with him," Connor said grudgingly.

Methos grinned. "Why else do you think I'm sleeping in his bed?"

* * *

><p><strong>BROTHERS IN ARMS<strong>

When the buzz hit, Methos got to his feet and moved toward his sword, which was still lying on the bed, but then MacLeod (the younger MacLeod) came in the door, so Methos sat back down across from Connor. Duncan paused at the sight of the two of them, then came down the stairs and joined them at the low table. Methos brought him a cup of coffee, fixed just the way Duncan liked it, earning a surprised thank-you from Duncan and an unamused stare from Connor.

Methos batted his eyelashes at Connor, only to have Connor give him a searingly lustful appraisal in return. Duncan stared wide-eyed, and Methos sternly commanded himself not to snicker. Maybe the elder MacLeod wasn't such a hard-ass after all.

Or maybe he was. Hmm ... But not now. Methos flashed Connor a coy smile as he seated himself, then arranged his face into properly sedate lines and turned to Duncan.

"So, uh, I guess you two have had a nice chat?" Duncan ventured, looking back and forth between them.

"Oh, yes," Methos said, and Connor chimed in, "Very nice."

Duncan nodded then retreated into silence, but an uneasy and watchful silence, not that patient monk-like stare Methos had seen earlier today.

"Sorry I missed you this morning, Duncan," Connor said, rising smoothly to his feet. "But I have to go."

Duncan rose, too, so Methos stood as well. "Say hi to Alex for me," Methos said to Connor, and the elder MacLeod turned and fixed him with a laser-hot stare, but nothing lustful or teasing now. He looked about ready to kill—as was usual in Methos's experience. "Alex and I met last night," Methos explained. "She and Cassandra came to Le Blues Bar to hear the jazz harper."

"I didn't know the harper was at Joe's place," Duncan said in surprise.

"Neither did Cassandra," Methos retorted, and Duncan raised his eyebrows as a smile flickered across his face. "Alex didn't tell you?" Methos asked Connor.

"No," Connor said, back to cold watchfulness. "She got in late, and I got up early. We haven't talked yet."

"We had an interesting discussion about archeological dating techniques."

Connor maintained his basilisk stare for a moment more, then nodded once and said to Duncan, "Still on for dinner tonight?"

"At eight," Duncan agreed, and Connor nodded to his kinsman and was gone.

Methos sighed as he resumed his seat. Connor certainly knew how to make an exit. And an impression. But then so did the younger MacLeod. Methos ignored the pair of dark eyes boring into him, but when MacLeod firmly said "Ahem," Methos looked up in all-innocence. "What?" he inquired.

"Just _what_ did you two talk about?" MacLeod demanded.

Methos had the perfect answer for that, and the perfect beatific smile to go with it. "You."

MacLeod opened his mouth, shut it, opened it one more time, then shook his head and got up from the table. Methos reached for his coffee and smiled.

* * *

><p>Connor and Alex left Paris on Monday morning, and Methos went over to the barge late that afternoon. MacLeod and he had Thai take-out for dinner, then went to a movie and stayed up late talking, just like old times.<p>

But not quite like old times. "I understand now," MacLeod said quietly, offering more than easy companionship and casual chatter as they sprawled on the floor in front of the fire in the barge. "Ahriman made me see. I understand about ... wanting to kill, about finding pleasure in it. About losing yourself in a darkness of blood."

Methos shook his head, for MacLeod had it all wrong, and Methos wanted him to understand. "It's not about losing yourself. It's about discovering a part of yourself you never wanted to find."

"Yes," MacLeod acknowledged instantly, his eyes gone to blackness in the flickering light of many candles. "I just don't like to admit it, even now." He sat up a little, his face half-shadowed by the red light of the fire, and laid a hand lightly on Methos's forearm. "I have it in me to be a Horseman, Methos," MacLeod admitted, sharing this dreadful truth between them, trusting Methos with the darkness in his soul, the way Methos had trusted him. "I could be what you have been."

Methos reached to take hold of MacLeod's forearm, and MacLeod's grip tightened, a solid clasp between two warriors, a bond between two friends. "We are none of us perfect," Methos said, as he had said to himself so many times before, trying to smile, knowing and accepting this in his friend, as he knew and had to accept it in himself.

"Brother," MacLeod named him.

Methos blinked back fierce tears and called him the same: "Brother."

* * *

><p><strong>NOT TO BE <strong>

They had fun the next few days, enjoying simple things with no more talk of the past, getting comfortable with each other again. On Wednesday MacLeod dragged Methos to an opera, and on Friday, Methos insisted MacLeod go inline roller-skating with him along the Seine. It seemed almost too good to last.

It was. On Saturday night, an Immortal named O'Rourke showed up. Apparently, he had a grudge against MacLeod (but then, didn't half the Immortals on the planet?), so O'Rourke kidnapped Amanda and Joe, then left a note for MacLeod to meet him at a train station at four in the morning. Methos tried to convince MacLeod not to walk into O'Rourke's trap, but MacLeod wasn't listening.

"Doesn't matter what I say, does it?" Methos asked in some annoyance. "Well, I've only been alive for five thousand years, what would I know about it?"

"I'm getting them out," MacLeod said grimly.

Methos didn't like the tone of that. "Are you playing the hero, or are you being a martyr?"

"Whatever it takes, Methos. Whatever I have to do, I'm keeping them alive."

Sometimes, Methos just wanted to take MacLeod's head and beat it slowly and thoroughly against a wall. "People _die_, MacLeod." Methos knew he wasn't getting through, and he tried again. "Immortals die."

It had been the wrong thing to say. Richie had died.

"Yeah," MacLeod agreed, his voice hoarse. "But not because of me. Not anymore."

"Goodbye," Methos called as MacLeod headed for the stairs.

MacLeod turned with a sigh. "I think you mean 'good luck,' don't you?"

Methos had meant exactly what he'd said, but not even that seemed to penetrate that thick-skulled, stupidly stubborn Scottish git. Obviously, more drastic measure were called for. "Of course," Methos agreed equably. "That's what I meant."

After MacLeod left, Methos sighed and checked his gun, his ammunition, and his sword, then followed, cursing all the way. His quiet Saturday evening was shot to hell. Instead of shooting the breeze with Joe, Methos had to go and shoot a few of O'Rourke's goons to even the odds and stop MacLeod from being an idiot and offering up his head on a silver platter. And then, instead of taking in a movie or watching the sunrise, Methos watched MacLeod take O'Rourke's head.

When the Quickening was finished, Amanda dashed over and knelt beside MacLeod. "I thought I'd lost you," she said tearfully, holding onto his hands.

"Never," MacLeod told her, but then he rose to his feet and didn't look at anyone's eyes. "Never again." He turned and walked away, alone.

"What did he mean by that?" Joe asked. Amanda just looked bewildered, but Methos already knew.

* * *

><p>The next Thursday, two years to the day after Methos had told MacLeod about his thousand regrets in that little church in Bordeaux, MacLeod invited Methos to his barge to say goodbye. "You know I don't know who or what you are, Methos," MacLeod began, and Methos looked down at the wine bottle in his hands. No one knew him. Not any more, not completely. He'd thought ... he'd hoped ...<p>

"And I know you don't want to hear this," MacLeod added, and Methos managed to keep his eyes from rolling too obviously. MacLeod saw and smiled and kept going. "But you did teach me something."

Methos smiled a little in return. Nice to know he hadn't completely lost his touch. Methos opened the bottle of Chateau Peyraguey, a wine that was heaven with wild strawberries. But of course, there were no wild strawberries, now as winter drew near, and heaven was a place where nothing ever happened.

"You taught me that life is about change, about learning to accept who you are, good and bad," MacLeod was saying, and they looked at each other now, saw the good and the bad, saw the hate and compassion, the murder and forgiveness. They saw each other, and they saw it all.

"I thank you for that," MacLeod said, with soft darkness in his voice and open honesty in his eyes.

Methos poured them each a glass of wine, handed one to MacLeod, then lifted his own in a toast. "To acceptance."

"To acceptance," MacLeod agreed, and they drank deeply, the wine a rippling of sunshine on dappled birch leaves. "And to change."

"I'll drink to that," Methos said, smiling, and they toasted each other once more, then settled down and talked all night long.

MacLeod spent the next evening saying goodbye to Joe, and the night after that with Amanda. Then he walked away. Methos knew why.

_/ Never to have lived is best, ancient writers say;_  
><em> Never to have drawn the breath of life; never to have looked into the eye of day;_  
><em> The second best's a gay goodnight and quickly turn away._

"MacLeod's off," Methos wrote to Cassandra, as a postscript on an e-mail giving her the address of website about cultural artifacts of Crete. "Went on a walkabout."

Cassandra's reply consisted of a cursory thank-you and the maddeningly perceptive comment: "He's not ready for you, Methos."

Not yet. Methos lifted his soda can and proposed a toast to the air. "To change."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Continued in "Starcrossed"<em>**


	9. Starcrossed

_Hope Triumphant I: Healer (part 9)_

* * *

><p><strong>STARCROSSED<strong>_**  
><strong>_

_**Saturday, 4 September 1999  
>The Highlands, Scotland<strong>_

Cassandra wasn't surprised to see Duncan in the Highlands, standing silhouetted on the gray boulder at the top of a nearby hill, with a pack on his back and his hands in his pockets. Scotland was his home, even now, part of his blood and his bone, and when a Scot went walkabout, he came to the Highlands, to the mist-filled glens and the dark-fingered lochs, to the land of sea and sky and stone. She stopped singing and lifted her feet from the cold water of the stream, then stood to greet Duncan in the shade of crimson-leaved oaks. Her friends' black dog came bounding, and instead she called out, "Finn! Friend!" Finn veered from Duncan and came to sit panting at her side, his ears pricked and his eyes alert.

Duncan came over slowly, then stopped to let the dog sniff his hands and feet. "No white wolf this time?" Duncan asked, and Cassandra laughed aloud, remembering the first time Duncan had seen her in the forest, all those many, many years ago, when a very young clansman had gone hunting in the forest for a wolf and found a witch instead. Springtime it had been then, and now it was almost the autumn of the year. "No," she told him, smiling. "No wolf."

"And are you the witch of these woods?" Duncan asked, as he had asked on that day, when he had been thirteen and ablaze with the certainty of truth.

"Some used to say that," she said, another memory of that time, but Duncan didn't laugh in return. He didn't even smile.

"He's ... quieter now," Connor had said, when Cassandra had asked him about Duncan over a year ago, soon after Ahriman had gone away. "More self-contained."

"More like you," Cassandra had observed, and by the lift of Connor's head and the flinching in his eyes, she had known he didn't like that at all.

"He laughs and he tells jokes, even more than he used to," Connor had continued, not looking at her anymore. "But he's forcing it, and forcing himself."

Duncan wasn't forcing himself now; he wasn't even trying. Cassandra reached out to him, laying her hand on his sword-arm, calling him by name. "Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod." The shadows from the trees settled deep in his eyes and drowned in those darkened pools, leaving no ripples behind, leaving nothing behind. No one was there. Cassandra had seen that look before. "Home is a place where / when you have to go there / they have to take you in," the poet Robert Frost had written, but if no one lives there anymore, then home is just an empty house, and no one even knows you're there.

"Come," Cassandra said quietly, carrying her shoes in one hand and walking at his side, so both of them could find their way.

Duncan took a nap that afternoon, in the small, slope-roofed bedroom upstairs, while Cassandra kneaded bread dough and chopped carrots and cabbage for soup. Mercutio meowed from the window sill, and she tossed him a slip of carrot, just to prove to him it wasn't ham. A curious sniff and a disdainful stare, and off the tomcat stalked, his tail an imperious flag of no surrender. Then he took to meowing to go out to the garden, and Cassandra opened wide the back door. Finn thumped his tail on the gray slate floor when Cassandra returned from her appointed duty as handmaiden to the cat, and she bent to caress the feathered silk of his ears.

The cat and the dog weren't hers, of course, and neither was this snug cottage near the shore of the loch. She was house-sitting and pet-sitting until Christmas for Annie and Lee, a married couple who taught at the school and had gone to Rome for a sabbatical. Cassandra hadn't lived with an animal for over three hundred years, not since she had picked up that kitten in the streets of Aberdeen, that kitten who had never been given a name. Finn rolled sideways and lifted a paw, and she obligingly scratched his tummy until he sighed and closed his eyes. Cassandra went back to chopping carrots.

The bread was baked and the soup was simmering when Duncan finally came downstairs, short hair combed, clothes neat and somehow unwrinkled, dark eyes still empty and lost. They spoke little over dinner, and Cassandra let him be.

After a dessert of brownies (and Duncan ate three), she urged him from the kitchen and told him she would do the washing up. Duncan wandered about the sitting room, looking at books and out the window at the dancing rain, then finally settled in the overstuffed chair, a glass of whisky by his side and the book of poetry by Yeats in his hand. Duncan noticed the inscription, of course, and asked her about it straight away, startled and alert. "Methos gave this to you?"

"Two years ago, in April."

Duncan looked at the book and looked at her, then ventured, "I didn't know you two were..."

"We're speaking to each other," Cassandra explained, knowing Duncan would be pleased. "Or at least e-mailing. I think he's in Germany now." She stacked the dishes one by one. "He sends me the most atrocious puns."

"Me, too," Duncan agreed, and they shared a wry grin before he went back to the book and Cassandra went back to washing dishes. When all was tidied, she peeled off her rubber gloves and went to her harp. In years past, she'd always had to wait for her nails to harden again before she could set them to the strings, but the gloves took care of that. The harp needed tuning again; changes in weather brought changes all around.

Duncan had shut the book and started listening, so when the harp was ready, Cassandra played a lullaby in the Gaelic for him, a song from the Highlands of long ago.

_/ Ushag vey ruy ny moanee doo, oh, where did you sleep last night?_

Cassandra sang the words low and lilting in a minor key, the tale of a little red bird lost and alone on a dark moor, searching for a home as it wandered from a gorse bush in the rain to a swaying briar in the wind, a little red bird whose sleep was hard at night. Duncan rose from his chair and stared out the window, his back to her as he watched the wind and the rain. The bird spent the night on a white-crested wave, and the lower harp strings thrummed with the surge of the sea while the higher notes went up and stayed hanging, waiting, suspended between sea and air, until finally the bird found a home of its own.

_/ Wrapped in two leaves I lay at ease, lay at ease, lay at ease._  
><em> As sleeps the young babe on its mother's knees._  
><em> My sleep was sweet last night._

Cassandra played on in a major key now, the flow and ebb of notes rising and falling, dancing with the wind, an echo of ripples and a gathering home, while the thrum of the sea went on. Then Duncan abruptly took his coat from the peg on the wall and walked out into the night, and the door slammed hard on his heels. Perhaps it hadn't been a good choice after all, Cassandra reflected, as she let the music die away. Or perhaps it had been exactly what Duncan needed to hear. She followed Duncan outside, with Finn prancing by her side.

Duncan didn't move as she approached, and he didn't look at her as he asked, "How did you know that?"

"Your Aunt Aileen taught me that song," Cassandra answered, wondering if Duncan would need to know more, but Duncan only nodded once and walked away. Cassandra let him go.

* * *

><p>In the mist-filled morning, she went running with Finn. Two miles from the cottage, they found Duncan soaked through and trying not to shiver, standing amidst a pile of broken stones. "Go to the house," Cassandra told him briskly, in no mood to argue with the man. "Get dry." Duncan nodded sheepishly and headed down the road, and Cassandra went on to finish her run.<p>

She watched over Duncan the rest of the day, a quiet Sunday, a day of rest for both of them. She made him tea and brought him food, listening when he talked, saying nothing when he was silent. He had questions for her after dinner, questions about his past and about her past, about his boyhood and becoming an Immortal, about Ahriman, about prophecies, about a thousand and one things he needed to know, and she tried to answer him as best she could.

It wasn't enough. Duncan turned his back on her and quoted the immortal hermit who had foretold an evil the color of blood, the hermit who had given his head and his Quickening to Duncan, the hermit who had once faced Ahriman and saved the world. "What we are is written in the wind, long before we walk this earth," Duncan repeated, and his words were despairing and dead.

"Written in the wind, Duncan," Cassandra reminded him, trying to give him some hope, some escape from a future foretold. "Not in stone. Wind changes."

"Stone changes," Duncan replied coldly, and he walked out of the cottage yet again. Cassandra sighed and pulled on her raincoat, then whistled to Finn and went into the dark. Duncan was staring at the water, black hair whipped by the wind and the rain, the whites of his eyes glimmering in the dim yellow light from the cottage. "Were you there when the Prophecy was made?" Duncan asked her, still cold, and hard with it now, too, hard as stone.

"Yes," Cassandra admitted, the answer choked and bitter. "I was there." There in the cave of prophecy, with the flames flickering red in the blackness and the chanting of the other priestesses low in her ears, with her back stiff and aching and with her eyes gritty with smoke and unsheddable tears. There all night, as the fire burned down to coals, there until the coming of the dawn, and the dawning of her own personal hell. She had found no escape from those damning words, not in over three thousand years. "An evil one will come," she repeated, chanting her ancient mantra of unavoidable pain, her future foretold and unchangeable, "to vanquish all before him. There will be a child, born with the sun, born in the north land, the high land, alone. A child, and a man. Darkness and Light will be his path, to challenge the Voice of Death. Life is death and death is life, and all are bound by blood; yet he must walk alone."

"Was that part of the prophecy?" Duncan asked, once more alert and aware. "That last bit?"

Cassandra pushed her rain-misted hair from her face as she considered her answer, but she knew she couldn't lie to Duncan, not anymore. "Yes."

"You never told me," he accused.

"No," she agreed, but she could offer no excuses, not anymore.

"How much more is going to be asked of me?" Duncan demanded, and she tried to reassure him, tried to answer as best she could, but it wasn't nearly enough. The anger and the bitterness of him seared her across the chill air, and the leashed violence in him terrified her, but Cassandra knew she couldn't just let him go, not again. Never again. She owed Duncan MacLeod her life, and she would help him, no matter what he needed, no matter what it cost her.

"Where are you going, Duncan?" she asked, but he did not answer, and Cassandra knew why. She had seen that look before. He had nothing, he had no one, and he had nowhere left to go. "You can stay here," she offered then waited unbreathing until finally Duncan nodded and came to walk by her side, so both of them could find the way.

* * *

><p>The next evening after dinner, as they sat in the garden and listened to the wind and the songs of the birds, Cassandra said firmly, "I want to tell Connor you're here." Duncan's gaze shifted off and away, out to the forested hills, and Cassandra urged softly, "He's been wondering where you are." At Duncan's grudging nod, she went into the cottage to use the phone.<p>

"MacLeod residence, John speaking," came the deep-voiced reply after the third ring.

"John, it's Cassandra," she said, keeping her words friendly but not too warm, trying to maintain the fiction of being the young man's aunt and thus completely out of reach and—she hoped—out of his dreams. "How did your football game go this weekend?"

"Great!" he replied. "We won, three to two. Coach says we have a good shot at making the finals this year."

"That's wonderful!" Cassandra responded and they chatted a moment more, until John offered, "I'll go get Mom."

"I need to talk to your father," Cassandra told him.

"Oh," John said in blank surprise. "OK. Here he is."

The next voice on the line was Connor's, and it was friendly, but not too warm. "Cassandra."

"Duncan's here," she said with no preamble. "We ran across each other hiking in the forest."

"No wolf?" Connor asked, just as Duncan had done, for Connor knew the tale.

"No wolf," Cassandra replied, then added, "No oranges, either," reminding him of their own meeting in the forest over four hundred years ago, when Connor had brought her a gift of three oranges fresh from sunny Spain, an expensive luxury at the time. They had given each other oranges on other occasions over the years, a tradition born of pain.

Connor snorted, but didn't pursue that topic. "How is he?"

"Even quieter than he was before," Cassandra replied.

"I'll come get him," Connor said.

"No," she said swiftly, before Connor could hang up the phone.

Connor paused, then offered gravely, the elaborate sarcasm not quite hiding the hurt, "I promise I won't talk to him too much."

"He's not ready to see you, Connor," Cassandra said gently. "Not yet."

"But he's ready to see you?" Connor challenged.

"My good opinion doesn't matter that much to Duncan," Cassandra said. "Yours does."

Another longer pause, then Connor asked again, "How is he?"

"Grieving," Cassandra answered, for she had seen the sadness in Duncan's eyes. "And hoping to find himself again. That's why he came to the Highlands. That's why he's trying to go home."

"He can come here," Connor said, his voice suddenly rough. "He can always come here."

"He knows that, Connor," Cassandra said. "And he will. In time."

Connor sighed gently, so softly she almost couldn't hear. "Let me know how he's doing," he said.

"I will," she promised. "And I'll tell him you're waiting for him to come home."

"Thanks, Cassandra," Connor said, his voice more than merely friendly now.

"Connor—," she began, but he was already gone, and Cassandra slowly set down the phone, wishing for a thousand things that might have been, and now could never be.

* * *

><p>Duncan found work at a nearby farm, helping Donald Cameron with his sheep, and Cassandra and Duncan settled into a simple routine—a morning run with Finn bounding at their heels, followed by a light breakfast with Mercutio on their laps and on the table and at the door, then she and Duncan went off to work for the day. Upon return, they practiced sparring before dinner, then either played chess or Cassandra played the harp while Duncan read nearby. Cassandra was out of practice with a sword, and Duncan beat her easily every time, but they were well-matched at the other game.<p>

Cassandra came home early one evening, and Duncan greeted her at the door, as excited as a child on his birthday, all traces of sadness gone. "A gathering tonight," he exclaimed. "At the Camerons' farm. Everyone's invited."

"Me, too?"

"They specifically told me to bring 'my cousin,'" Duncan said, for that was how they had explained their relationship to the people nearby. "Wear something pretty," he urged, and he himself was resplendent in a creamy wool sweater and black jeans. "There'll be dancing tonight."

Cassandra donned her long green skirt that flared with every step, and she matched Duncan's sweater with a creamy tunic of soft combed wool. She left her hair loose about her shoulders, then she and Duncan set out walking across the fields in the late twilight, with the harvest moon just rising over the hills. A few others came walking, but mostly they drove, their cars lifting dust on the road, for the weather had been dry of late, with a fine harvest gathered all around.

The music during dinner came from tapes and CDs, but as the darkness fell, the bagpipes and the drums were brought out, and sparks from the bonfire rose high. A few kilts and plaids swirled in the ring of dancers, and Cassandra joined hands with Duncan as they circled the fire, then parted and then joined again as the weaving of the dancing began.

She was across from Duncan when they brought out the sacrifice, a straw man limp and golden on the shoulders of the men. The folk clapped in ignorant glee, singing loud into the night.

_/ There was three kings into the east,_  
><em> Three kings both great and high,_  
><em> And they have sworn a solemn oath_  
><em> John Barleycorn should die._

Donald Cameron pulled Duncan by the arm, and he joined the five other pallbearers, carrying the anointed one to the flames. The sacrifice burned swiftly, flames flaring high, gold strands charred black, but no hot scent of blood now, no burning of flesh and hair and bone. There would be no sharing of half-raw gobbets of man-flesh torn loose by groping hands, no steaming blood in a communal cup, no drunkenness of lust to be sated by couplings in the fields. Only a passing jolt of fire from a shared whisky bottle or two, and a few kisses here and there, a tamer sacrifice for a tamer time. A young woman was kissing Duncan even now, and then he kissed her cheek in return, with smiles from everyone and with singing in the air.

_/ And they have taken his very hero blood_  
><em> And drank it round and round._

Cassandra knew this rite, this ancient offering to the Earth, this blood payment offered for a harvest received. She had been here before, and it fell to her to say the prayers, her hands open at her sides, palms turned to the heavens but not lifted high. Take what is given, but do not reach for anything more, not now, not in the season of the dying. Your hands cannot hold the light, and the darkness will come when it will.

Duncan met her eyes across the flames, his face now gone stark with knowledge and pain, shadows shifting black upon him as the last of this sacrifice burned. Richie's sacrifice had been of blood.

"Will you no' come back again?" the people were singing now, a plaintive question to a long-ago prince who had never returned. Duncan turned and fled across the fields, and Cassandra watched him go.

"Better loved you cannot be," the voices cried. "Will you no' come back again?" Cassandra knew the answer, knew it all too well. Can anyone ever come back again, to the way things used to be?

She found Duncan face-down in the fields, arms spread wide in a penitential pose, crucifying himself on the ground. "Duncan," she said softly from behind him, "come home." No answer, no movement, no sign, and Cassandra knelt before him, bent over to kiss his soft black hair and touch his hands with her own. "Duncan," she called, "come home," but there was nothing, and Cassandra lay down by his side and took his hand in her own, waiting.

The music and the distant firelight died away as the night wore on and clouds covered the moon, and then the rain began to fall. She lifted her head, and Duncan turned to her now, his face a blur in the dimness. She kissed his hand, his sword-hand, his killing-hand, and then she called his name. "Duncan, come home."

They walked through empty fields, through swift rain and rising wind, arms about each other, saying nothing, finding the way home. In the living room he stood and shivered, eyes dull and hopeless, and Cassandra knew he needed more. Not a man, don't think of him as a man, she told herself as she took him to the bathroom. He won't hurt her, won't touch you, won't use you, she reminded herself as she helped him undress and rubbed him dry. This is Duncan. He's ill, he's a patient, be a healer, she told herself sternly, helping him dress in a gray sweat pants and shirt, then leaving him alone to change out of her own damp and chilly clothes.

"Cassandra?" he called, a rising tone of terror in her name.

"I'll be right there," she promised, and she was, holding him as he had so often held her. "Come to bed," she said softly, knowing she couldn't leave him alone. Finn settled at their feet, and Mercutio claimed the pillow, as usual, but somehow there was room for them all. She tucked the blanket around Duncan and kissed his forehead, a mother's goodnight to a child. "Sleep, Donnchadh," she whispered, her arms tight around him. "Sleep now."

Duncan started shaking, weeping with silent sobs, as his grieving for Richie finally hit home. She held Duncan, his head against her shoulder, her cheek resting against the silk of Duncan's hair, while her own tears burned upon her face. Oh, my son, Cassandra whispered silently. Oh, my son.

* * *

><p>The next day Duncan and Cassandra slept late, then went for a leisurely stroll along the side of the loch. "Look!" Duncan exclaimed, happy and pleased, pointing to Methos, who was walking along the shore of the loch, skipping stones on the black ruffled surface. Somehow, Cassandra wasn't surprised. Scotland was the place to be. Duncan called out to him, then invited him in for tea. "Cassandra, he's my friend," Duncan urged softly when she hesitated, and Cassandra summoned a smile and opened the door to her home. Methos was Duncan's friend, and Methos had changed. Cassandra had to believe that.<p>

The afternoon went quickly, with laughter and stories and incredibly atrocious puns, then Methos cooked a feast for them all, and the evening went quickly as well. "Bed?" Duncan suggested, with a heart-warming smile, and Cassandra gave him her hand.

"My compliments, MacLeod," Methos said, lounging back in his chair, a pear half-eaten in his hand. "You taught her well in everything, I see."

"She's no different from the others," Duncan said with another smile, but this time Cassandra's heart went cold.

Methos tossed the fruit aside and uncoiled from the chair. "Time to share the spoils of war?"

"No," she whispered, but no one listened to her, and no one even looked her way.

"Sounds good," Duncan said, his fingers digging into the softness of her wrist as she tried to pull away.

"Duncan, please!" she begged as he dragged her from the room. "Please!"

Duncan did not answer, and Methos just kept smiling as he followed them into the bedroom. "You always were much too trusting, Cassandra," Methos told her, stretching her arms tight above her head while Duncan knelt between her legs, his hands busy at his belt.

"No!" she screamed and kicked out with both feet, catching Duncan in the chest, but Duncan and Methos just laughed as Duncan settled his knees on top of her thighs, holding her down.

"You've left some spirit in her!" Methos exclaimed, twisting her wrists until she bit her lip with the pain. "I like that, MacLeod."

Duncan grinned as he yanked up her skirt. "When we're finished with her, maybe we'll let Connor have her."

"Duncan, please!" she said softly, using the Voice, looking up into those deep brown eyes, staring at that face she had thought she knew so well. "Don't do this," she pleaded, her world shattering once again. "Not you," she whispered, tears trickling down her temples into her hair. "Oh please, Duncan, not you, too."

"You owe me, Cassandra," Duncan told her, his eyes very close, his lips against her own. "You owe me your life."

"Duncan, please," she whispered one more time, but Duncan didn't answer, and Methos watched it all. Methos took a turn while Duncan held her down, then they simply walked away, leaving her lying on the floor, broken and weeping, shattered into nothing once again.

* * *

><p><strong>SHADOWS<strong>

"I shouldn't be having these dreams anymore!" Cassandra raged, kicking at the bottom of the chair. "I've been in therapy for three years!"

Closer to two and a half years, Jennifer thought, but she didn't bother to correct Cassandra, who had taken to pacing between the window and the wall, her fists clenched at her sides and her hair swirling about her with every turn. Jennifer hadn't seen Cassandra since her last appointment, nearly a month ago, and Jennifer hadn't been expecting to see her today. Cassandra had called this morning, early, demanding a session, and Jennifer had squeezed her in late in the day. Tom would be home from work soon, and the girls were probably making dinner right now, a happy family affair which Jennifer would miss entirely. Jennifer's stomach gurgled with hunger as she sighed silently and wondered why she had ever decided to become a therapist.

"I shouldn't have to do this anymore!" Cassandra raged on. "This should be over!"

Jennifer banished her selfish and uncharitable thoughts and focused on the desperately unhappy woman in front of her. Cassandra needed help, and it was Jennifer's job to give it to her. Jennifer had chosen this work years ago, and she wasn't about to quit now. "How long has Duncan been staying with you, Cassandra?"

Cassandra stopped in mid-whirl, thinking. "Two weeks," she bit out, then kicked at the chair again.

"And where is he now?" Jennifer asked, another straightforward question, nothing too complicated or too emotional, not yet.

"How should I know?" Cassandra demanded. "I'm not his mother!"

Jennifer tried again, staying calm. "What happened this morning, when you woke up?"

Cassandra exhaled slowly and flexed her hands, then answered in similar calm tones. "He made coffee, and we talked about Richie, then I went to work and called you."

"Richie's that friend of yours who died two years ago, the one Methos told you about?"

"Yes," Cassandra agreed, settling down enough to sit on the edge of the chair. "It was an accident, but Duncan is the one who killed Richie. Duncan feels guilty about that, and also, he's finally letting himself grieve. I'm trying to help him with that."

"Cassandra—," Jennifer began.

"You said helping others was an important part of the therapy process!" Cassandra flared.

"Yes, it is," Jennifer agreed, for it had certainly helped her over the years. "And I think it's good that you want to help Duncan. But that doesn't mean you have to let him sleep in your bed, not if it gives you nightmares."

"He needed me," Cassandra said simply, that ancient refrain. "Last night, he was so alone, so hurt. If you could have seen him ..." She blinked rapidly, but tears spilled down her cheeks. "I wanted to help."

"And did you?" Jennifer asked

"Yes," Cassandra replied, wiping her face with her sleeve. "Before he went to sleep, he said he was glad I was with him. And this morning was good. We talked a lot about how and why Richie died. I don't think Duncan's spoken about it much before, and now I know how important it is to share these things."

"Did you tell Duncan about your dream?"

"Of course not!" Cassandra answered, sounding horrified.

So much for understanding how important it was to share, Jennifer noted, but then most people were blind about themselves. "Why didn't you tell him?"

"He can't know," she said, almost babbling, getting up from the chair to pace again. "He mustn't know."

"Why?" Jennifer asked again.

"How can I tell him?" Cassandra asked, stopping in the center of the room, pleading with her hands spread wide. "How can I tell the man who's saved my life, who's held me in his arms all those nights when I cried, who's never been anything but kind and good to me—how can I tell him that in my dreams he rapes me? That every time I'm near him I'm afraid he's going to hit me? That I don't trust him at all?"

"What are you really afraid of, Cassandra?" Jennifer asked, because it always went back to that.

"I don't want him to hate me," Cassandra said plaintively, crying again. "I don't want him to despise me. Not Duncan. Not him." She whispered more to herself than aloud, "Oh please, not him, too."

"He's very special to you, isn't he?" Jennifer prompted.

"I held him in my arms the day he was born," Cassandra replied, a despairing smile breaking through her tears. "I knew him as a child; I watched him grow. You can't know what that means to an Immortal. And Connor's trusting me to take care of Duncan. I've failed in so many things; I don't want to fail with Duncan, too. I owe him my life."

"He saved your life," Jennifer agreed. "That doesn't mean you owe him all of your life now."

"I didn't mean it that way," Cassandra retorted, with a swift and angry lift to her head.

"Didn't you?" Jennifer countered, then spelled it out for Cassandra to see. "You're ignoring your own valid needs to try to 'make him happy.' You're hiding what you really feel because you're terrified he's going to abandon you. You were terrified Methos would abandon you to the other Horsemen, so you did whatever he wanted."

"It's not the same," she denied hotly.

"You're right," Jennifer acknowledged, wishing she'd chosen another example, then hitting on a better one. "But you're lying to Duncan, Cassandra, just like you lied to Connor, because you don't think he'll accept you for who you are."

"Why should he?" she asked in sudden misery, sinking to the chair. "Why should anybody? I'm so messed up I even hate the people who try to help me. I hate Duncan, I hate Connor, I hate Alex, I hate you." Jennifer wasn't surprised by that at all, and then Cassandra went on, "And I hate myself most of all." That wasn't a surprise, either. Cassandra stared at the floor then said dully, "I thought I was past this. I thought I did this last year. And the year before that."

"You did," Jennifer said patiently. "And you may have do it again next year, and maybe the year after that."

"How long?" Cassandra demanded. "How long does this take?"

"I don't know, Cassandra," Jennifer answered honestly. "Most people get over the main part of their trauma with a year or two of treatment; some take longer. You're over three thousand years old, and you have a lot of pain. It may take you ten years, maybe twenty. But you have made progress; you only come here once a month now, instead of every week like you did in the beginning. And everyone has flashbacks. Everyone has things that take them unaware. A lot of my former clients come back in for a session or two, sometimes a decade after we've finished."

"So, what do I do after you're dead?" Cassandra asked bluntly.

Jennifer blinked in surprise and sudden pain, then put it aside. She was going to die someday, no way around that, and Cassandra's question was a valid one. "Find another therapist, if you still need to. But, Cassandra, every time you deal with your memories of a trauma, it will get easier for you, as long as you're honest with yourself about your emotions, and honest with other people, too. You will learn how to be on your own, Cassandra."

"I'm going to have to," she muttered then stood abruptly and picked up her coat. "And I'm going to start right now." Cassandra smiled charmingly at her, and Jennifer stood, too. "I'm sorry to have kept you so late," Cassandra said smoothly. "Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice."

"Cassandra!" Jennifer called as the other woman headed for the door.

"I'm learning how to be on my own," Cassandra called back from the hall. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Yes, indeed," Jennifer murmured, standing alone in the center of the room, still feeling buffeted by the emotional whirlwind of the last few minutes. "That's what I want." And that's what Cassandra needed, too, but she wasn't ready for it yet, not this way.

* * *

><p>When the cottage came into view, Cassandra drove the car onto the side of the road and then just sat there with the motor running, staring at the charming scene—the white-washed walls tinted golden by the setting sun, the luxuriant flowers, the cheerful red door that stood invitingly ajar. The bloody gaping maw that hid the monster waiting for her inside. "Stupid," Cassandra told herself firmly. "That's stupid," and she drove right up to the cottage and got out of the car. She could do this. She could.<p>

Duncan had made an elaborate dinner for them, pasta and chicken in a white cream sauce, with flowers on the table and a new bottle of wine. Yet the food tasted of sawdust, the wine of bitter gall. "What's wrong?" Duncan asked, watching her closely, and Cassandra summoned three thousand years of practice and lied easily and completely, wanting to do this by herself, as she had done almost nothing else unaided in her long and wretched life.

"I'm fine," she assured him with a gentle smile. "Just tired."

"We were up late last night," he agreed, smiling in return and reaching for her hand across the table. Cassandra let him touch her, forcing down the panic that bubbled up inside. Duncan wouldn't hurt her. She knew that. That dream had been a lie.

"Thank you," Duncan said, intense and beautiful, a gloriously splendid man.

"I'm glad I could help," Cassandra told him, tightening her grip on his hand in fierce satisfaction. She wasn't completely helpless, and she wasn't completely worthless. "So," she asked, withdrawing her hand from his so she could finish eating, not withdrawing—never again!—out of fear, "what did you do at the Camerons' farm today? Fix the fence?"

"I didn't go to the farm," Duncan said, sipping at his wine. "Finn and I went running and found a little church not too far from here. I lit a candle, said a prayer." He set down his glass, traced the rim with a slow-moving finger. "Today's Richie's birthday."

"Ah," Cassandra breathed, seeing the other reason for Duncan's sudden bewildered loss last night. This time, she reached out to Duncan and took his hand in both of hers. "It's a good custom," she said softly. "To remember, and to love."

"Works for Connor," Duncan said, his smile tight with pain, yet a real smile none the less, nothing forced or hidden anymore. "And I think it'll work for me." His grip was too strong, his fingers too firm, yet Cassandra gladly accepted this sharing of pain. This, she could do for him. This, she knew. And Duncan wouldn't hurt her, she could trust him. She was sure of that.

After dinner they played chess in front of the fire, for Cassandra couldn't make music tonight. She lost a game and she won a game, and then she put the board away. Duncan caught her by the hand as she walked by, and Cassandra took a deep breath and forced herself to smile. "Ready for bed?" Duncan suggested, his eyes hopeful, his look still a little sad. "Just sleep," he added, with a charming smile, and Cassandra refused to give in to her fears. Never again.

"Bed," she agreed, with a tug on his hand. Finn came trotting at their heels, and their sleep came sweet that night.

* * *

><p>Cassandra woke abruptly, cold air on her back, a dark shape silhouetted in the bedroom doorway, and the sensation of an Immortal nearby. "Duncan?" she called uncertainly.<p>

"I'll be right back," he promised, and when she heard the rumble of water in the pipes, she closed her eyes and burrowed deeper into the blankets, then moved closer to him for warmth when he came back to bed. His arm went around her, pulled her closer, held her down.

"Duncan," she murmured, moving away and refusing to panic—not again, never again!—but a hand snaked around her throat, and a hard knee was suddenly wedged between her own.

"I'm afraid Duncan is otherwise engaged," Kronos said, his voice silky smooth and laughing in her ear. "But don't worry, Cassandra. He'll be right back. After all, he promised you, didn't he? And you can trust Duncan MacLeod. You know that." Kronos laughed in delight, a thoroughly happy sound.

"You're dead," she whispered, clinging to the truth. She had seen Kronos beheaded; she had seen him die.

"So are you," came the swift reply, and both his hands wrapped around her neck and started to squeeze.

* * *

><p>Cassandra woke unmoving, unblinking in the darkness, listening to the soft breathing of the immortal man by her side. A dream, just a dream, just another dream, she told herself savagely, her hands going hesitantly to her throat. Another hand joined hers, soft and gentle, touching her fingers in a warm caress.<p>

"Duncan?" she breathed, gasping in sudden relief and trying not to cry.

"I told you I'd be right back," Duncan said, his voice soft in her ear. "Don't you trust me?"

"Of course, I trust you, Duncan," she protested, knowing she had to depend completely on this one man.

"You should trust me," Duncan said, his fingers tightening, his voice darkening with rage. "You should never doubt me."

"Duncan," she pleaded, taking his hand in both of her own, yet not daring to move away or show any of her fear. He would kill her; she knew that. It had happened before.

And it was happening now. Duncan's hands slowly tightened around her neck, then released and tightened once again. "Methos told me you like it slow, Cassandra," Duncan told her. "And I can make it last a really long time."

Cassandra didn't even bother to try to escape, just lay there crying in hopeless sorrow and pain, letting him kill her, because she knew she deserved this. Duncan MacLeod was a decent, honest man, and she trusted him. She trusted him with her life.

And she died.

* * *

><p>Cassandra woke, unmoving and unbreathing, not even bothering to open her eyes. She didn't need to; Duncan was right there, right by her side. "I told you I'd be right back," Duncan said cheerfully, moving closer to her for warmth. "Miss me?"<p>

"Duncan," Cassandra breathed slowly, not yet daring to trust. He pulled the blanket closer, tucked it in around her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. She sagged in limp relief, heart still pounding, throat still raw. Dreams, dreams, more stupid bloody dreams. Only dreams. Cassandra controlled her breathing, chanted a silent calming prayer, let the tears flow until they dried, taking comfort in Duncan's reassuring strength, his hand around her own. He'd helped her this way before.

"Feeling better?" Duncan asked, and when she nodded, he suddenly grinned, teeth flashing white in the darkness. "Good, because now it's time to share the spoils of war."

"No," she whimpered as her world splintered around her, but Kronos commanded, "Hold her legs, Brothers," and Silas and Caspian each grabbed an ankle and pulled. Connor and Duncan held her hands, stretching her arms high, and Kronos laughed once again. "Duncan promised me he'd be right back," Kronos told her, a soft and silky whisper on her right side.

Roland was there, too, whispering in her other ear. "We're only trying to help you, Cassandra, to teach you how to behave. We wouldn't bother if we didn't care. You know that. You can trust us."

Methos spoke from his place at the foot of the bed, his place between her legs. "We've been waiting for Duncan. He said he wanted to watch."

"Please," Cassandra begged, but no one listened to anything she said, and no one cared at all. Seven of them this time, and Duncan watched it all.

* * *

><p>Cassandra woke and didn't dare to move, just lay there listening to the steady breathing of the immortal by her side. Finally, she opened her eyes. Duncan, that was Duncan, asleep and on his back, his fingers curled slightly to his palms, moonlight glimmering on his black hair, not touching her at all. No one else was in the room. Cassandra cautiously sat up, and Finn pushed his cold nose into her hand. She crawled from the bed and into the bathroom, then huddled on the cold tile floor in the corner behind the door. Finn sat watching her, his head cocked, his tongue hanging, and Cassandra groped for him blindly and buried her face in his fur so she could cry.<p>

Dreams within dreams within dreams, only dreams. Not real, not possible, never even true. Kronos was dead, and Silas and Caspian and Roland were dead, and Methos had changed, and Duncan and Connor would never hurt that way at all. She _knew_ that. She was awake now, she knew that.

Or was she awake? How could she be sure? Kronos might be just behind the door. Cassandra let go of Finn and stepped into the bathtub, reaching for the razor there. A swift stroke, a single slice across the palm. She watched as the blood welled up freely, but she felt nothing. Again and deeper, and again and again and again, hands and forearms and thighs, the red pulsing sluggish under dancing blue flickers, but the skin healed completely, and she couldn't feel anything at all. This wasn't real, she was dreaming, and she had to wake up, she had to make sure she was alive.

Pain would do it; all she needed was pain. A large water-smoothed rock lay in the corner, used sometimes as a doorstop in this old and uneven house, and Cassandra picked it up and dropped it on her bare foot, shattering the long bones and smashing two toes. Finn whined with her as she whimpered, her eyes closed on the tears of agony and relief, panting slowly through the receding waves of pain. She was awake now. Kronos couldn't come after her anymore. She was safe.

She was also a bloody mess. Cassandra looked about her at the red-spattered walls, her ruined clothes, her sticky hands, the razor on the floor. So, she had been awake for that, too. Wonderful. At least this time she had decided to slice herself in a bathroom instead of in her bed; cleaning up shouldn't be too bad. She locked the door and started scrubbing away, then washed herself and scrubbed some more. Her tattered clothes and the blood-stained towels went in the outside trash bin, wrapped in newspaper and hidden inside black plastic bags. Duncan must never know.

New clothes, a cup of herbal tea, a chapter or two in a silly novel, and at four o'clock in the morning, she decided she was ready to sleep. Duncan was peacefully asleep on his side of the bed, leaving plenty of room for her, but Cassandra stood there shivering for ten minutes before she gritted her teeth and climbed in. She could do this, and she was going to do this, and she wasn't going to let fear rule her life anymore. Never again.

Two hours later, she finally closed her eyes.

* * *

><p>Cassandra woke but did not move at all, for another Immortal was near, very near, right by her side. She breathed in cautiously, tasting the air, smelling traces of dog-fur and soap and mildew, hints of flowers and dust and wool. The sheet under her hand was flannel, the blanket about her shoulders was heavy and warm. Muted birdsong came from outside, and a very faint whine of car tires went by on the road, but the breathing of the Immortal overrode them all.<p>

So. It was morning, it was the twentieth century, and she was—probably—truly awake. The dog was Finn, the bed was in the cottage, and the other Immortal was Duncan. Probably. And Duncan wouldn't hurt her. She was sure of that. He had lied to her and abandoned her before—her dreams hadn't been completely unfounded—but he wouldn't hurt her.

Unless she made him angry.

Or unless he was drunk, or someone else made him angry, or he had just taken a Quickening, or he decided to take her head because of the Game, or maybe he would hurt her because he was bored or frustrated or maybe ... maybe just because he liked it. Or maybe a thousand other reasons that could happen anytime, anywhere, without warning, without explanation, without appeal.

So, what else was new? All men were like that, some more than others, and women simply needed to be careful every day, everywhere. It was just the way things were. No more whining, no more complaining, time to start the day. Cassandra opened her eyes, and Duncan immediately looked away, stretching and yawning with a mumbled greeting of "Morning."

Cassandra murmured a response and sat up in bed, pulling the blanket with her, hiding her clothes. She didn't think Duncan would notice she was wearing gray instead of blue this morning, but she didn't want to have to explain, and she didn't want to lie. "Sleep well?" she asked him, just to be polite.

"Mmm," Duncan answered, sitting up in bed. "You?"

"Equally 'mmm'," she replied, which wasn't really a lie, because "mmm" didn't mean much of anything, and the night hadn't been that bad. She'd had worse. Duncan was very busily staring at his toes, and Cassandra suddenly realized why. "You haven't been with a woman since you started wandering, have you, Duncan?"

"Cassandra—," he protested, and now he drew the blanket up, hiding himself from her gaze.

"I always find the first decade of celibacy to be the most difficult," she commented, keeping the words dry and clinical, like a deadly dull lecture from school. "After twenty or thirty years, sex seems somehow remote."

"Now that's reassuring," Duncan muttered, but he didn't sound at all sincere.

"It's not uncommon, Duncan," she told him. "Immortals often have times of celibacy."

"And how long do these times last?" Duncan inquired, elaborately polite.

"It varies. Methos mentioned fifty years." Cassandra took her time rearranging the pillow behind her, then decided to tell Duncan the truth. No more lies. "The longest for me has been over three and a half centuries." Duncan gaped at her, the standard response, and Cassandra wondered again why people made such a fuss about sex.

"I guess when you started again it was ... quite a night," Duncan finally ventured.

"You should know," Cassandra told him with a smile, wanting to share this with him, too. Her one night with Duncan had been a renewal of hope for her, and Duncan had been the man to bring her back to life.

Duncan blinked and managed only, "Oh."

"Thank you," she told him, reaching for his hand, not surprised to feel her sudden tears.

"I'm glad I could help," he said, smiling with both pleasure and embarrassment. Their smiles softened to ones of fond memories, then they squeezed hands and let go. "Have you ...," he started, curious now. "I mean ... are you still ...?"

"Not lately, no," she said, going back to a dry, remote tone, safer ground for them both. "Not since I found out the Horsemen were still alive, not since Bordeaux." Or maybe not so safe—Duncan's eyes had gone dark and inward once more. "Breakfast?" she asked cheerfully as she got off the bed, then hurriedly pulled a sweater on over her shirt, hiding the color from Duncan's eyes.

"It's not only because of the Horsemen," she said to Duncan as they walked into the kitchen, because she knew he still blamed himself for that, even though it wasn't his fault. She got out the bread and the cutting board, then decided to tell Duncan even more. She could trust him with this; she didn't have to hide everything from him all of the time. "My therapist calls it 'attachment avoidance' and 'problems with intimacy'," Cassandra said, watching carefully as she sliced into the bread with a knife, so she wouldn't have to look into Duncan's eyes. One slice, two slices, three, then four. She darted a glance at Duncan, and he nodded to her in understanding as he measured the coffee.

Cassandra knew she should tell him about the dreams, a least a little. Jennifer was right. And Duncan had forgiven Methos for his past, hadn't he? Duncan wouldn't get angry with her because she couldn't control her dreams. Duncan would understand. "I find it difficult to trust someone enough to let them get close to me," Cassandra started hesitantly, trying to explain, "either physically or emotionally."

"You and every other Immortal on the planet," Duncan said breezily, because he wasn't really listening to her at all. He didn't even care.

"Every time a woman reaches out to touch you, do you wonder if she's going to hit you?" Cassandra demanded, slamming the knife down on the board and then backing away, because she knew if the knife were in her hand, she'd use it to flay the living skin from his skull and then to carve out his heart. "Are you worried that your lovers—mortal or immortal—will suddenly decide to kill you while you're in bed together?" Cassandra asked him, but she already knew the answer was no. He was a man: a self-confident, self-assured, self-centered man. He didn't have to be afraid. He didn't always have to have a chaperon, a legal guardian, a protector, a _champion_. He could go places and do things and never once have anyone tell him to stay home where he belonged. He was an arrogant, domineering, controlling man. Just like Connor, just like Methos, just like Kronos and Roland and all the rest of them, every single one.

Duncan had absolutely no _idea_ what her life had been like—what her life was _still_ like—no idea at all. She wanted him to know. She wanted him to understand exactly what it meant to be a woman living in a world designed for men. "How many times," she demanded, "have you revived to find some man already fucking you, while other men stand around and watch, waiting for their turns?"

"Jesus, Cassandra," Duncan whispered, the coffee pot forgotten in his hand, but Cassandra whirled and slammed her way out the door.

Wonderful. Just absolutely wonderful. Cassandra slashed at the tall grass by the roadside with a stick, slicing through the dried heads heavy with seed. So much for not telling Duncan everything. So much for keeping her temper. So much for explaining things in a calm, rational way. Cassandra slashed again and again and again, the grasses scattering under her assault. The pale green seeds clung to her bare feet, chilled and wet with the morning dew.

Finn came running by, veering past and disappearing into the mist, and she knew Duncan wasn't far behind. She could go running. She could go hide. She could walk away and never face Duncan again, abandon everything in the cottage, just disappear from it all. She'd done it before, many times.

But she wasn't going to run anymore, and she wasn't going to lie. She let Duncan catch up with her, then hurried to explain before he could speak. "Bad session with my therapist yesterday, Duncan. And a bad dream last night." She took off another seed head with a vicious swipe of the stick, because none of this was Duncan's fault. It was all her problem, and she knew that, and she still wanted to kill him slowly, with a great deal of pain, and she hated feeling that way, and she hated herself, too. Cassandra whacked at yet another blade of grass. "I shouldn't take it out on you."

"I didn't know," he said.

Of course, he didn't know! Blind, self-centered, oblivious man! She'd been _trying;_ she'd been trying so hard, and he didn't even have a clue.

But that was stupid. He didn't know because she'd never told him. She'd never told anyone, not until these last few years. She didn't want anyone to know. And that was stupid, too. Why should she be ashamed? Why should she keep silent? She hadn't done anything wrong. And getting angry with Duncan for not knowing something she'd deliberately never told him was stupid as well. Enough of that. Enough silence, enough lying and hiding and shame. Cassandra breathed deeply of the cool morning air on this fine autumn day and finally told Duncan the truth, or at least the beginnings of it. He listened and he nodded, but he didn't get angry and he didn't walk away, because Duncan was a man she could trust.

"I do need to learn how to deal with this," she said, as they walked hand in hand, heading back to the cottage, then she asked timidly, "And I do need your help, if you don't mind." Help from a friend, not protection from a champion. She would never use a champion, never again.

"At your service, m'lady," Duncan said, with a sweeping bow and a hand over his heart, and Cassandra had to laugh as she curtsied in return, pretending to hold out the skirts of a gown.

"Thank you, Duncan. I want to learn how to trust again, and I can't think of a better person to do it with."

"Sure about that?" Duncan asked, the demons of self-doubt in his eyes.

Cassandra had no doubts, not about him. "Yes."

* * *

><p>Cassandra woke and didn't dare to move, for an Immortal was right by her side. "Bad dream?" Duncan asked, but Cassandra didn't want to risk answering until she had taken stock of the room—Finn at her feet, flannel sheets on the bed, moonlight coming through the window, and the steady tick of the clock on the nightstand. Real details, real things.<p>

So. She was truly awake, and this Duncan—the real Duncan—wasn't going to hurt her. She allowed herself to breathe and sat up in bed, pulling the blankets close around her. "Bad dream," she agreed, the third night in a row, the third night Duncan had spent in her bed.

"Want me to hold you?" Duncan offered.

"No."

Duncan sighed and sat up beside her, keeping to his side of the bed. His short hair stood up in odd tufts about his head. "It's helped before," he ventured.

"Yes, it has," Cassandra agreed, for during the week they had spent hunting the Horsemen, Duncan had been there to hold her after her dreams, night after night after night. "You've helped," she said, trying to smile.

"So, why not now?" Duncan asked.

"Because before," Cassandra said, carefully picking her words, "the dreams were about Kronos and Methos." And about Roland, but she didn't want to tell Duncan that. Not yet. Maybe never. She didn't have to tell Duncan everything. "And now..."

"And now the dreams are about me," Duncan finished for her, his voice dark and grim.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Why?" he asked. "You can't control them, can you?"

"No," she said helplessly. "Not those dreams, not any of my dreams."

"Do you have visions often?" he asked.

"No," Cassandra said, turning to this other topic with relief. "Sometimes not for centuries. Half the time I don't understand what any of it means, not until everything's over. Or I guess wrong. Or—" She stopped, suddenly realizing how blind she had been, nearly four hundred years ago.

"What?" Duncan prompted.

"When you came to Donan Woods as a boy, I went to the pool to look for the future while you were sleeping," Cassandra said, remembering that night, when she had knelt naked by the pool, waiting, hoping, desperate. "All night I looked, and I saw nothing but my own face in the water, wavering, clouded, even disappearing sometimes. Only with the coming of the dawn, did I see myself clearly again. I thought it meant my visions were gone, and I didn't have any vision-dreams after you were born, not for centuries." She had thought that the Goddess had abandoned her, completely, and that she would be forever alone, banished and forgotten. "But I was wrong. My reflection _was_ the vision."

"Because you lost yourself," Duncan said, seeing immediately what she had not.

"Yes. Only now, after the fulfillment of the Prophecy, am I finding myself again." Slowly, with the coming of the dawn. And with Jennifer's help—a lot of help. Cassandra decided to send Jennifer a present in the morning, maybe Belgian chocolates or a box of herbal teas again. No, this time Jennifer deserved both, with an apology. What Jennifer really deserved—and no doubt needed, after listening to Cassandra these last three years—was an all-expenses-paid vacation to Paris or the Riveria for a week, but Cassandra couldn't afford that, and Jennifer would never accept such a gift, anyway. Maybe Cassandra could make her something special, paint her a picture, or embroider a pillow.

"What other kinds of visions do you have?" asked Duncan, still curious.

"Sometimes when I'm awake, I see things—shadows mostly, premonitions of death. Only the future, never the past. Or I can deliberately look, in the fire, or in water."

"Like you and Connor did, when you were trying to find me?"

"Yes," Cassandra agreed. "We used water then, and Connor looked for you. He was surprised it actually worked. But seeing the future the way I do is a useless talent, really," Cassandra said, shrugging. "Even when I do understand, I can't change anything. It's so hard to know, and yet be able to do nothing."

"Like with Richie," Duncan said, but he wasn't angry anymore, the way he had been two days before, when he had asked her what she had known.

"Like with Richie," she agreed. Like with Ramirez. Like with a thousand other things. "And like with Ahriman," she said, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs. "I knew something would happen, but I didn't know what or when or how, and I was afraid if I did say something to you, it might make it worse." She'd tried to change things before. "I'm sorry, Duncan, but I did what I thought was best."

"Yeah, well," Duncan said, stretching his arms and legs. "I guess that's all we can ever do."

"That's what _you_ do," Cassandra said. "That's what you makes you the man you are. You always try to do what you think is right."

"And you don't," Duncan observed, surprising her, this man who knew her in ways beyond knowing, this man who understood her because he listened, because he cared.

"No," she admitted softly. "Or ... I haven't always in the past. I lost what I knew I should be. But I'm trying now." She was trying many things. "So, why were you awake?" she asked, trying to be less self-absorbed.

Duncan shrugged and gave a helpless smile, much like her own. "Bad dream."

"Would you like me to hold you?" Cassandra offered, wanting—and needing—to help.

"Yes," Duncan answered, his smile turning hopeful, and Cassandra opened her arms.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Continued in Family Tree<strong>_

_**To see the events in this section from Duncan's point of view, read "Changed Utterly" by Parda (available on fanfiction . net).  
><strong>_


	10. Family Tree

_Hope Triumphant I: Healer (part 10)_

* * *

><p><strong>FAMILY TREE<br>**

_**November 1999****  
>MacLeod Farm, Scotland<strong>_

"How's Duncan doing?" Connor asked when he found Cassandra playing the piano in the living room, away from the crowd of John's friends in the kitchen. The eight teenagers were finishing off their nachos before they headed for home.

Cassandra didn't look up from the keys, just kept playing intricate finger exercises, the tendons and muscles in her bare forearms rippling with the sound. "Better."

"So where is he?"

Cassandra's fingers stopped and she stared straight ahead. "I don't know, Connor. He didn't tell me his plans for the evening."

Connor fit himself into the curve of the baby grand and leaned toward her, but only a little. Cassandra was still skittish, and she still couldn't stand being touched. "It's John's birthday."

"And Duncan took John out to lunch today," Cassandra replied. "Duncan said he wasn't up for a crowd."

"It's not a 'crowd,'" Connor said distinctly. "It's a family dinner. Here. Tonight."

"With all four Osakas, and the MacNabbs, and John's girlfriend, and me. Nine adults and three toddlers and a baby, Connor."

"He's been in Scotland for two months, Cassandra!"

"Ten weeks to the day," she retorted. "But who's counting?" Then she went back to playing scales.

"Damn it, Cassandra!" Connor growled.

Cassandra stopped playing again and carefully shut the lid over the keys, then stood and faced him. "Please explain to me, Connor," she asked, her tone cool and pleasant, "how your being angry with Duncan gives you any reason, or any right, to be angry with me?"

Connor stopped short, caught off-balance by a woman who had finally found a balance of her own. "Busted," he admitted, borrowing one of John's favorite expressions, then offered a gruff apology with a genuine smile, "Sorry."

Cassandra nodded and moved on. "I told Duncan about the party. He decided not to come."

"Because of me," Connor guessed, and he knew by the unchanging expression that Cassandra had quickly plastered on her face that he was right. Connor nodded slowly through the hollowness in his heart, then made his way to the liquor cabinet in the corner and poured himself a shot of whisky. Then he made it a double and quickly drank it down. "Why?" Connor asked, rolling the empty glass between his hands and staring at the ashes in the fireplace, dark and cold on this sunny autumn day.

Cassandra walked toward him with a whisper of silk and suede, an elegant outfit of ebony and emerald, classically beautiful without being sexual, soft lines that suggested but didn't reveal. Even so, John's friends had watched her every move with avid, hungry eyes, and John had been watching, too. No wonder Cassandra had sought sanctuary in the living room. She stopped a good three paces away, one graceful hand lightly touching the stones of the fireplace wall, the other held out to him in offering, or supplication. "Duncan wants you to be proud of him, Connor."

Smooth, wasn't she? Connor snorted and shook his head, recognizing her ploy. A few soft words to soothe the savage breast, to make him feel important and special when he had been feeling as if he didn't matter at all. And the hell of it was, it worked. "Am I really that intimidating?" he asked.

"You have a very strong personality, Connor," Cassandra replied, her tactful and flattering way of saying "overbearing." Alex would have just come right out and said it. Cassandra acknowledged his rueful snort with a quick smile, then continued, "Duncan has a very strong personality too, of course, but right now..."

"How he's doing?" Connor asked again, but this time he really wanted to know.

"Better," she repeated, more thoughtfully now. "I think he's come to terms with Richie's death, and he's enjoying his work at the farm, but he's still not sure where he wants to go, or what he wants to be." Her smile returned and lingered, softening the curve of her cheek, deepening the green of her eyes. "He reminds me of you, during those months in Donan Woods, before you left the Highlands."

Those months he had lived in Cassandra's cottage, five years after his wife Heather had died, when Connor hadn't known where he should go or what he should do, when his unknown immortality had stretched ahead of him, a trackless wasteland of solitude. Those months when he had been the one to watch Cassandra with hungry eyes, those months before she had taken him into her bed, on that night that had seared them both to the soul.

Cassandra's smile faded under the intensity of his stare, and she gazed back with eyes of golden-green, the way they used to be when she had lain naked in his arms. Then she quickly blinked and looked away, crossing her arms in front of herself and hiding once again. Connor turned and poured himself another drink. "Want anything?" he offered, his back to her still.

"No, thank you," came the polite reply, removed to a chair on the other side of the room.

Connor carried his drink with him and sat in the far corner of the sofa, being careful not to look directly at her anymore. "And how are you doing?" he asked softly.

"Me?" she said in surprise. "I'm fine. Really," she protested, though Connor hadn't disagreed. "Duncan's a wonderful houseguest—picks up after himself, makes the bed, walks the dog, feeds the cat. Some nights he has dinner waiting for me when I get home from work. Oh, and I've started sparring again. Duncan and I practice almost every night. He wins, of course, but I'm getting better."

"No flashbacks?"

"Nothing I can't handle," she replied.

Connor guessed that meant she hadn't let Duncan kill her during practice. Yet. "No dreams?" Connor asked. The silence lasted a beat too long, and Connor glanced up in time to see the terrified helplessness in her eyes, just before she smoothed it away.

"Nothing I can't handle," she repeated, flippant and determined, then admitted softly, "With help."

"From Duncan."

"I help him, he helps me." She adjusted a fold in her skirt. "He doesn't want to be alone, and I'm learning how to _not_ want to be alone." Cassandra ran both her hands down her thighs to her knees and smiled to herself, a smile that lingered on. "He's a wonderful man, in so many ways."

"Yes, he is," Connor agreed, suddenly wondering how "not alone" Cassandra wanted to be, and wondering whose bed Duncan was making and just what kind of "help" they were giving each other. "The bed," Cassandra had said, not "his bed," not "the beds." The bed. Maybe Cassandra didn't mind being touched anymore.

Well, that wasn't surprising, was it? Duncan and Cassandra had gone to bed together before, and even though three years ago she had said she didn't want Duncan as a lover, that didn't mean she couldn't change her mind. And it was none of Connor's business, anyway.

"I think Duncan will be here for Christmas, Connor," Cassandra said brightly. "He just needs a little more time."

"Good," Connor said. "You'll be here too, right?" It had become a tradition over the last three years, this gathering of the clan for the holidays. Rachel had come every year, and Alex's brother and his wife and two kids had come the year before.

"Yes, I'll be arriving the week before Christmas," Cassandra said. "Plenty of time to help get ready for Sara and Colin's birthday party on the twenty-second."

And Duncan's birthday was on the twenty-first, and his own was on New Year's Day. Looked like it was going to be a busy holiday season. Connor stood to leave. "I think I'll go investigate the damage in the kitchen. Those boys are too quiet." Cassandra nodded and went back to the piano, and Connor listened to the steady humming of repetitive scales as he walked down the hall.

* * *

><p><strong>DELIVERANCE<br>**

"Christmas is the Saturday after next," Cassandra told Duncan a month later during dinner. "The Dysons are coming back this weekend." Duncan said nothing, and Cassandra decided it was past time to give him a nudge. Fledglings have to learn to fly. "I'll be going to Connor and Alex's for the holidays," she said cheerfully. "I know they'd love to have you there, too."

"I was thinking of doing some skiing," Duncan said, equally upbeat. "Maybe in Switzerland." Cassandra twirled her spaghetti onto her fork, wondering if she'd have to forcibly kick him out of the nest. "I'm not ready," Duncan protested, but she knew he was wrong.

After dinner she brought out the Tarot deck, and Duncan joined her at the kitchen table, instead of sitting in the living room as they usually did. "Richie gave these to me when we met at Connor's house three years ago," she said as she untied the white ribbon that held the green cloth around the cards.

"Have you used them?" Duncan asked curiously.

"Only once," she replied. "With him." She challenged Duncan with a steady stare, her fingers rippling the cards. "And now with you, if you like."

Duncan wasn't any too eager, but he restacked the deck when she separated it into piles, and then he pushed it back to her. Cassandra laid out the cards, a Celtic Cross for a Celtic man. Duncan had questions, and she answered them as best she could, describing the cards and their history, explaining the meanings to help Duncan find his way. The reading was a strong one, five major arcana out of fourteen cards, with minor arcana that repeatedly spoke of entanglements, of opportunities missed and rejected, of a man who wouldn't let go.

Duncan shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "So, what does it mean?"

"The cards in your past say, Stay. The cards in your future say, Go. Step out onto a path of new possibilities. The Fool is in the center, the heart of it all, and he is about to step off a cliff into the unknown. The world is too much with you. You need to let go, of your possessions, of your past."

"So, I should be a fool?" Duncan challenged her, still refusing to see. "Step off a cliff and whistle while I fall?"

"You've stepped off cliffs before, haven't you, Duncan?" Cassandra asked him, knowing he had the wings to fly. "Besides," she added, a final push, "what have you got to lose?"

Duncan stared at the cards, then shoved back his chair and put on his coat. "I'm going for a walk," he declared.

"Take Finn," Cassandra suggested, for the dog was already waiting at the door, ears up and eyes happy. Duncan shouldn't be completely alone, not now. After they left, Mercutio leapt onto her lap and settled there purring, and she rubbed behind his ears and studied the cards. She picked up the final card and held it in her hand—the card of Judgement, in this deck a Phoenix rising reborn from the flames, golden wings stretched wide. "Fly, Duncan," she said softly. "Fly."

But she had done all she could, and it was up to Duncan now. Cassandra swept the cards together, those pictures of possibilities—Death and the High Priestess, the Moon and the Fool, cups and swords and coins. She hesitated a moment, the deck warm and waiting in her hand, then she wrapped the cards and tied the ribbon tight. Not now, not for her. She already knew where she must go.

Cassandra set Mercutio carefully on the chair, and he meowed in protest before jumping off to find a cat-chosen—and therefore infinitely better—place to sleep. She put on her coat and went outside. The cold wind whipped her hair across her face, and she walked on the black stony beach of the loch. A shimmering ribbon of moonlight lay upon the waves, a colorless rainbow of the night.

She perched on a rock and waited, while the moon lowered itself behind the hills. The ribbon shifted slowly on the water, a plaited silver strand, stretching thin into nothingness, a gossamer spiderline lifted away by the wind, drawn back into the faery-realm of what-might-be, that place where the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true. The darkness deepened and the stars flared brilliant in ancient patterns, turning high above, each sun different, the darkness all the same. Cassandra waited, content with the night.

She wasn't surprised to see Duncan walking toward her from the darkness, with Finn a black shadow by his side. She rose and went to meet him halfway, holding out her hand. He was icy cold and dripping wet, yet ablaze with the certainty of truth, and she knew he had finally realized what it is to come home, and he had finally remembered how to fly.

* * *

><p><em><strong>MacLeod Farm<strong>_  
><em><strong>1 January 2000<strong>_

"Happy Birthday, Connor," Cassandra said on New Year's Day, and she handed Connor his present, another set of drawings of his family. She had done the first set three years ago.

"Thank you," Connor said with that smile which crinkled the corners of his eyes and lightened the color to sky-washed blue. He sat down on the couch to look through the album, and Cassandra sat by his side. "Getting to be quite a collection," he commented as he turned page after page, drawings of the twins as infants and as toddlers, of John, of Alex and Connor together, and more drawings of Alex alone.

"It's hard to know what to get a man who has everything money could buy."

"This is good," he said, his voice husky as his fingers lingered at the corner of a page, a pen and ink sketch of Sara and Colin from a few months ago, laughing in delight as they rode on Connor's back, while he pawed at the ground like a horse. "No money could ever buy this. Thank you," he said again, with another wonderful smile, and Cassandra smiled in glad reply.

He closed the album, and they went to look out the window, where John and Alex and Duncan were helping Sara and Colin build snowmen. "Sara says she wants 'more bigger' boots," Connor said with an indulgent smile. "The snow is so deep it goes in over the tops."

"If the snow gets much deeper she won't be able to walk," Cassandra observed. "Or we might lose her altogether."

"Hey, she's not that short," Connor protested, laughing. "She's got to be at least three feet tall." He looked again at his children, the three-year-old twins bouncing about with bright-red mittens and bright-red boots, John tall and lanky in a black skiing outfit, nearly as tall as Duncan now. "They grow fast."

"Yes," Cassandra agreed. The years went quickly, too.

"Hard to believe it's the year two thousand," Connor said, apparently thinking the same thing. "Almost the new millennium." He glanced at Cassandra, a wry twist to his mouth. "I guess that's not so exciting for you, is it?"

Cassandra shrugged. "It's just a number, and it's just one calendar. But this time—I think this next millennium will be different, in many ways." And not only for her; she had plans for many things. "It's hard to believe," Duncan had commented two months ago, when they had spoken of Roland and the power of the Voice, "that a few words can have such power, for so long, to change the world that way."

"Yes," Cassandra had murmured, suddenly seeing what she should have known all along. Words to change the world. Jesus had done it, and the Buddha, and Mother Ann Lee. Cassandra could do it, too. The Brotherhood had been destroyed, but the Sisterhood could be born anew, and the world need never be the same. Oh, not this year, and maybe not for centuries, but Cassandra was immortal. She had time.

"Different, indeed," Connor said, pulling her attention back to today. "Duncan moving to New Zealand and buying a sheep farm, and Duncan changing his name."

"What did he pick?" Cassandra asked, curious.

"Mark Richard Johnson."

"Of course," she murmured, for Mark meant warrior, and Cassandra remembered the long ago words of Ian MacLeod. "A dark warrior he will be, my lady," Ian had said to his wife in that dark smoky hut that smelt of blood and sweat and sheep. "Shall we name him so?" Mary had smiled and kissed the foundling, and Ian had named the child as his own: Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, a dark warrior of the sons of Leod. And now Duncan had become Mark, son of John, and Duncan had added the name of his son.

"I never thought he'd actually change his name," Connor said and added a snort of exasperation. "God knows I've tried to convince him often enough before."

"Never is a very long time," Cassandra said, watching the children play. "But he'll be Duncan again. Someday."

Connor shook his head knowingly, for he had left his name behind and then come back again. "It won't be the same."

Cassandra smiled with mingled sadness and hope. "Nothing ever is." True journey is return, but everything changes, and home is the place you are always coming to.

* * *

><p><strong>THE GATHERING<br>**

_**Sunday, 13 August 2006**_  
><em><strong>Glenaladale, Scotland<strong>_

Cassandra leaned against the stone wall in the MacLeods' garden as she glanced at the crisp white paper in Connor's hand and read again the hand-lettered script.

* * *

><p><em>Harold and Margerie Fenwick<em>  
><em>request the honor of your company<em>  
><em>at the marriage of their daughter<em>

_Susan Ann Fenwick Harding_

_to_

_Mark Richard Johnson_

_on Saturday, the thirtieth of September_  
><em>in the year two thousand and six.<em>

_Geraldine, New Zealand_

* * *

><p>Cassandra's invitation had included a note saying, "Hope you can make it," but Connor's invitation was written over in Duncan's neat hand with the words: "You're my best man. See you then!"<p>

"Guess he's decided not to worry about the curse anymore," Connor observed, folding the invitation back into its envelope. A fond smile creased his face as he looked up to watch Colin and Sara shrieking with joy and pelting each other with handfuls of autumn leaves.

"Curse?" Cassandra asked, watching Connor now. She'd seen children at play before, but she hadn't seen Connor so contented nearly often enough.

"A hundred and fifty years ago, some gypsy woman told him he'd never marry," Connor explained, "He laughed it off, but it bothered him. And then over the years ... things never worked out." Connor turned slightly to look at his house, his home, the home where he and Alex were making things "work out." But both he and Cassandra knew—as all Immortals eventually knew—that such happiness was rare, and though evil was real enough and common enough, happily ever after existed only in fairy tales. Connor shrugged and looked back at the twins. "But now ..."

"Now he's a different person," Cassandra finished for Connor, deliberately optimistic. "A new name, a new life." All the prophecies had been completed, and all the curses left behind. Duncan—Mark—deserved this freedom to choose.

Connor nodded and then stretched, flexing his arms. "I'm going to go chop some wood. Winter's coming soon."

"Yes, it is," Alex agreed, coming along the path from the kitchen door with a basket full of daffodil bulbs and gardening supplies on her arm. "Want to help me plant these, Cassandra?"

"Of course," Cassandra agreed, and the two women went to the grassy field in front of the house and started digging. "These will be lovely in the spring, Alex," she commented. "How many bulbs did you get?"

"Two hundred," Alex answered and then laughed at Cassandra's groan of dismay. "Don't worry. This is the last of them, only thirty or so. We've been planting all week. Everybody else is tired of it, which is why I asked you." The sound of an axe came from the woodpile near the stable, and children's laughter came from the leaf pile. Connor was hard at work, the children hard at play. "You're going to the wedding, aren't you?" Alex asked.

"No, I don't think so," Cassandra said, cutting into the sod with a quick twist of the bulb planter. Finding a teacher to take her place was difficult, the wedding was on the other side of the world, and she didn't have anything to wear. No doubt Methos had been invited, too.

"Oh, come on," Alex urged, with a quick puff of air upward to blow her bangs from her face as she patted the soil down with gloved and dirty hands.

Cassandra smiled, remembering the first time she had seen Alex blow her bangs like that, over ten years ago. Alex wore her hair shorter now, and white threaded among the gold. She was forty-three. Four years ago, Connor had begun coloring his hair gray and wearing glasses that looked like bifocals. Recently, he'd started using make-up. That might work for another decade or so, but after that ... happily ever after that—

"We'll all go together," Alex was saying. "Connor's going to be best man, of course, and Duncan said Susan has a seven-year-old and a nine-year-old from her first marriage, so Sara and Colin will have some other kids their age to play with. You and I can go explore New Zealand. Have you ever been there?"

"No," Cassandra answered slowly, setting the bulb carefully in its hole and then covering it with dirt. She planted another bulb, a promise of beauty for the coming year, and decided she was ready to fly. "Want to come with me to Paris to go shopping for a dress?" Cassandra asked.

"Next weekend," Alex agreed with a smile, and so it was settled.

* * *

><p>Methos had helped Connor plan (and thoroughly celebrate) the bachelor party, and Methos had attended the wedding and witnessed the vows, but when it was time for the removal of the bride's garter, Methos ducked away to hide. He didn't want to join the single men in vying for the trophy; he wasn't looking for a wife. He climbed the stairs to the balcony that overlooked the hotel ballroom, only to find Cassandra waiting there.<p>

"Not going to try to catch the bouquet?" he asked, approaching slowly, looking her over for any sign of a sword. He took his time looking. Her sea-foam green gown of watered silk clung to every curve, making it transparently clear there was absolutely nothing under the fabric except her.

"Not going to try to catch the garter?" she retorted.

"I've been married before."

"Have you?" she replied, one eyebrow arching in surprise.

Methos smiled to himself. She hadn't changed at all. "Sixty-eight times."

"That many," she murmured and sniffed in obvious disbelief at other women's stupidity in accepting him for a mate. She turned her back on him to watch the crowd below.

Methos kept looking at her, for the view was even better now. "How many husbands have you had, Cassandra?" he asked, finally leaning his elbows on the railing and looking down. The bride was seated in a chair with MacLeod—or rather, Mark Johnson—kneeling at her feet, while the crowd of bachelors hovered near.

"Four," she answered.

"That few?" he asked in genuine surprise.

Her smile was a mere twisting of lips. "The market for non-virgin, sterile, older women with no family connections is slim. I was contracted to be a concubine or bought to be a bedpartner any number of times, but that's hardly the same."

"No," Methos agreed quietly, though he suspected she had looked for—and found—her own reasons to avoid marriage. Most men didn't mind marrying widows, and if the men already had children by another wife, sterility could actually be a bonus. But it was pointless to argue that with Cassandra now. They watched in silence as the garter was retrieved amid much laughter and thrown into the jostling crowd. Susan's brother caught it, and he waved the lacy circlet high above his head. "Have you met Susan?" Methos asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

"Just to say hello," Cassandra said. "You?"

"We chatted a few days ago at lunch. A nice enough girl." The nice-enough-girl tossed the bouquet to the crowd of women, and a blonde of about eighteen caught it and shrieked with joy.

"Susan will do fine," Cassandra said. "MacLeod needs to do this, at least once, just to see what it's like." Cassandra suddenly pointed to the far corner of the room, where a certain silver-haired gentleman was holding a chair for a very pregnant and much younger woman. "Is that Dawson?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Dawson," Methos said grandly. "They got married a few years ago, and they haven't lost any time. This will be their second kid. Mrs. Dawson's not with the Watchers, but she can really sing the blues."

"Does Dawson still have his club?"

"Yeah, and he still plays there, but he's not the manager anymore. Says he's too busy, being a family man and all. He decided to stay in Paris when MacLeod moved to New Zealand, and Dawson's quite the power among the Watchers these days, sits on the Tribunal and helps make the rules."

The music started again, and the bride and groom started waltzing, a flame-haired woman whirling in the arms of a darkly handsome man. Connor escorted Alex to the dance floor, and John MacLeod emerged from the shadows with the blonde bouquet-catcher on his arm and a big grin on his face. Other couples joined the dance, Amanda in a crimson strapless gown and impossibly high-heeled shoes, smiling invitingly at her partner and somehow managing to put a decided hint of the tango into her moves. Cassandra quoted softly, "In the long echoing street the laughing dancers throng."

Methos added the next line from the poem by Yeats. "The bride is carried to the bridegroom's chamber through torchlight and tumultuous song."

Cassandra continued, "I celebrate the silent kiss that ends short life..."

"... or long," Methos concluded. Long indeed, with time enough for change. "Want to dance?" he asked, wondering just how far they had come.

"Not with you," came the reply, and Methos wasn't surprised. But as he turned to go, she called after him, "Not yet," and Methos gave her a smile and a bow before he went down the stairs to claim a dance with the bride.

Cassandra watched from above as Methos cut in on the bridal couple and took Susan for a turn around the floor. He danced well, better than Cassandra had expected, and the waltzing looked like great fun. But not yet. She wasn't ready to have a man's hands on her that way, any man, and especially not Methos. She would never trust him, and—even more importantly—she still didn't completely trust herself. But someday, she'd be able to face him. Someday, she'd be over her fears, and someday, she would be the one in control.

And besides, that little remark should keep him contented, or at least interested, for quite a while, and Methos might prove useful someday. One never knew.

She swayed with the lilting strains of the music and watched the dancing from the balcony until the song was over, then she wandered into the garden in the hotel courtyard and breathed deeply of the fragrant night air. Springtime instead of autumn, here on the other side of the world, a spring with all the promise of life anew. It was always spring or summer somewhere. Cassandra tilted her head to look at the moon, a perfect half-circle, and stretched luxuriously, relishing the touch of the breeze on her skin and in her hair. No more waiting, no more watching—it was time to start gathering her forces.

She had a lot of changing to do.

* * *

><p><strong>Thus ends Healer.<strong>

Cassandra's story is continued in

**Hope Triumphant II**  
><strong>SISTER<strong>

* * *

><p>For more about Duncan's wedding, read <strong> Goddess Child, <strong>wherein Alex and Connor's daughter, Sara, learns the truth about Immortality, Amanda does the tango, Connor and Methos toss Duncan in the pool, and Cassandra makes a promise she has every intention of keeping.

For more about Duncan's time with Cassandra in the Highlands and his decision to change his name, read **Changed Utterly.**

For more about Methos's time in the monastery between the episodes "Revelations 6:8" and "Forgive Us Our Trespasses," write to Nightsky and ask her to finish her story "Beyond." Nightsky is the one who comes up with all the nifty ideas about Kronos being adopted by Methos (**Long Have I Waited**), about how the Game got started (**Just a Game**), about where Methos went during the year of Ahriman, and about the topic for the thesis. She has many more ideas about Methos, so write to her and ask her to put them in stories.

**SPECIAL THANKS TO:**

-Bridget, for ... well, for everything.  
>-Listen-r, for adding that touch of psychiatric verisimilitude and keeping Joe in character.<br>-Teresa, for giving me insightful comments on what I had erroneously thought was a completed story.  
>-Shelley Wolfe, for making me think about what Cassandra really wanted.<br>-Genevieve, for giving Methos a motive and a past, and a reason for disappearing during the Ahriman mess.  
>-Robin, for finding a dancing beer and asking for some punch.<br>-Cathy B., for advice on interior decorating.  
>-Vi, for keeping Methos and Cassandra suspicious.<br>-Kamil, for asking to see the trees in the Dark and Perilous Forest of Armageddon.  
>-Lori, for spell checks and Cassandra motives.<br>-Rhiannon, for helping with the Tarot reading for Duncan.  
>-Chris Cowan, for steadfast support and feedback through the years, and for flogging my book.<p>

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**

THE POEM BY WILLIAM B. YEATS

From "Oedipus at Colonus" (XI A Man Young and Old)

_Endure what life God gives and ask no longer span;_  
><em>Cease to remember the delights of youth, travel-wearied aged man;<em>  
><em>Delight becomes death-longing if all longing else be vain.<em>

_Even from that delight memory treasures so,_  
><em>Death, despair, division of families, all entanglements of mankind grow,<em>  
><em>As that old wandering beggar and these God-hated children know.<em>

_In the long echoing street the laughing dancers throng,_  
><em>The bride is carried to the bridegroom's chamber through torchlight and tumultuous song;<em>  
><em>I celebrate the silent kiss that ends short life or long.<em>

_Never to have lived is best, ancient writers say;_  
><em>Never to have drawn the breath of life, never to have looked into the eye of day;<em>  
><em>The second best's a gay goodnight and quickly turn away.<em>

—-

The word Ki-e-nida is Sumerian for "a place for dancing."

—-

The Tarot deck mentioned is by Robin Wood.

—-

The Klingon greeting is not "How are you?" or "How have you been?" but "NuqneH?" which translates to "What do you want?"

In "Star Trek: The New Generation" Warf observes an irate woman of Irish descent who is berating her father and Captain Jean-Luc Picard, and then comments, "She is much like a Klingon woman."

—-

The song Jennifer thinks "asinine" is from the musical "Oliver" by Lionel Bart, sung by Nancy about her lover, Bill Sykes. Bill Sykes kills Nancy near the end of the musical.

Jennifer quotes from Paul's letters to the Corinthians: Corinthians 13:4-8

—-

The jazz harper is based on Deborah Henson-Conant.(A harpist plays the pedal harp seen in orchestras; a harper plays the folk-harp.)

—-

The knights who say "Ni" are from the movie "Monty Python and the Search for the Holy Grail."

—-

The wine Chateau Peyraguey is described as being "heaven with strawberries" in the book _Brideshead Revisited_ by Evelyn Waugh. The wine is also mentioned in the story "Long Have I Waited" by Nightsky and Parda. "Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens" is a quote from the song "Heaven" by The Talking Heads.

—-

The lullaby Cassandra sings to Duncan is from the Isle of Man. Write to me if you want the music for it, either vocal or harp. I also have a harp arrangement for Bonny Portmore. (Both arrangements are at the easy to intermediate level.)

—

Connor uses the phrase "soothe the savage breast" which is from this play:

Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,  
>To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.<br>—The Mourning Bride. Act i. Sc. 1, by William Congreve. 1670-1729.

—-

Mother Ann Lee was the founder of the Shakers, a Christian religious sect that lived in communities in the United States from 1774 to about the late 1800s.

—-

"True journey is return" is a quote from Ursula K. LeGuin's novel "The Dispossessed."

—-

**Thanks for reading through to the end!**


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